/ 


-    a/',W   "''^' 


"Well  Chile,  wot  You  wants  ter  Say?" 

Earth  Trembled-  Pag«  338. 


^be  mox\\^  of  J£.  p.  "Roe 


VOLUME   FIFTEEN 


THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
P.    P.    COLLIER   &    SON 


»5 


Copyright,  1887, 
By  DODD,  mead,  &  COMPANY. 


Copyright,  18(^2, 
By  DODD,  MEAD,  &  COMPANY, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  1 
Mary  Wallingford 11 

CHAPTER  II 
Love's  Agony 18 

CHAPTER  III 
Uncle  Sheba's  Experience 24 

CHAPTER   IV 
Mara 32 

CHAPTER  V 
Past  and  Future .    39 

CHAPTER    VI 
*Tahnaship" 47 

CHAPTER  Vll 
Mara's  Purpose 56 

CHAPTER  YIII 
Never  Eorget;  Never  Forgive    .     .    o    .    c    .    .    63^ 

CHAPTER  IX 
A  New  Solace 73 

CHAPTER  X 
Miss  x\insley 79 

iVill9?47 


6  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   XXXVII 
Clouds  Lifting °    °  ^1^ 

CHAPTER   XXXVin 
*'Yes,  Yilet" .  326 

CHAPTER  XXXIX 
The  Earthquake 332 

CHAPTER  XL 
*'God" ^^^ 

CHAPTER  XLI 
Scenes  Never  to  be  Forgotten 347 

CHAPTER  XLII 
A  Homeless  City ^^^ 

CHAPTER   XLIII 
"The  Terror  by  Night" 371 

CHAPTER  XLIV 
Hope  turned  into  Dread 380 

CHAPTER   XLV 
A  City  Encamping ^^^ 

CHAPTER  XLVI 
"On  Jordan's  Banks  we  Stan'  " 403 

CHAPTER   XLVII 
Lights  and  Shadows  of  a  Night 414 

CHAPTER   XLYIII 
Good  Brought  out  of  Evil 425 


THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 


THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


.  •  ■>     »      J     o  ,       ,     ^ 


J_J 


»       e 


CHAPTER    I   -,  ;     .        .-.  ;  ;  ;. . 

MARY   WALLINGFORD 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War  there  was  a  fine  old 
residence  on  Meeting  Street  in  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  inhabited  by  a  family  almost  as  old  as  the 
State.  Its  inheritor  and  owner,  Orville  Burgoyne,  was  a 
widower.  He  had  been  much  saddened  in  temperament 
since  the  death  of  the  wife,  and  had  withdrawn  as  far  as 
possible  from  public  affairs.  His  library  and  the  past  had 
secured  a  stronger  hold  upon  his  interest  and  his  thoughts 
than  anything  in  the  present,  with  one  exception,  his  idolized 
and  only  child,  Mary,  named  for  her  deceased  mother.  Any 
book  would  be  laid  aside  when  she  entered;  all  gloom  ban- 
ished from  his  eyes  when  she  coaxed  and  caressed  him. 

She  was  in  truth  one  to  be  loved  because  so  capable  of 
love  herself.  She  conquered  and  ruled  every  one  not 
through  wilfulness  or  imperiousness,  but  by  a  gentle  charm, 
all  her  own,  which  disarmed  opposition. 

At  first  Mr.  Burgoyne  had  paid  little  heed  to  the  mutter- 
ings  which  preceded  the  Civil  War,  believing  them  to  be 
but  Chinese  thunder,  produced  by  ambitious  politicians, 
North  and  South.  He  was  preoccupied  by  the  study  of  an 
old  system  of  philosophy  which  he  fancied  possessed  more 
truth  than  many  a  more  plausible  and  modern  one.  Mary, 
with  some  fancy  work  in  her  hands,  often  watched  his  deep 


12  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

abstraction  in  wondering  awe,  and  occasionally  questioned 
him  in  regard  to  his  thoughts  and  studies ;  but  as  his  explana- 
tions were  almost  unintelligible,  she  settled  down  to  the  com- 
placent belief  that  her  father  was  one  of  the  most  learned 
men  in  the  world. 

At  last  swiftly  culminating  events  aroused  Mr.  Burgoyne 
from  his  abstraction  and  drove  him  from  his  retirement. 
He  accepted  what  he  believed  to  be  duty  in  profound  sorrow 
and  regret-  His  own  early  associations  and  those  of  his 
ancestors  had  be^n  with  the  old  flag  and  its  fortunes ;  his  re- 
lations to  the  political  leaders  of  the  South  were  too  slight 
to  produce  any  share  in  the  alienation  and  misunderstand- 
ings which  had  been  growing  between  the  two  great  sections 
of  his  country,  and  he  certainly  had  not  the  slightest  sym- 
pathy with  those  who  had  fomented  the  ill-will  for  personal 
ends.  Finally,  however,  he  had  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  momentous  certainty  of  a  separation  of  his  State 
from  the  Union.  For  a  time  he  was  bewildered  and  dis- 
turbed beyond  measure;  for  he  was  not  a  prompt  man  of 
affairs,  living  keenly  in  the  present,  but  one  who  had  been 
suddenly  and  rudely  summoned  from  the  academic  groves 
of  the  old  philosophers  to  meet  the  burning  imperative 
questions  of  the  day — questions  put  with  the  passionate 
earnestness  of  a  people  excited  beyond  measure. 

It  was  this  very  element  of  popular  feeling  which  finally 
turned  the  scale  in  his  decision.  Apparently  the  entire 
Southern  people  were  imanimous  in  their  determination 
^'to  be  free''  and  to  separate  themselves  from  their  old 
political  relations.  His  pastor  with  all  other  friends  of  his 
own  rank  confirmed  this  impression,  and,  as  it  was  known 
that  he  wavered,  the  best  and  strongest  men  of  his  acquaint- 
ance argued  the  question  with  him.  His  daughter  was  early 
carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  her  young  companions, 
nevertheless  she  watched  the  conflict  in  her  father's  mind 
with  the  deepest  interest.  She  often  saw  him  walk  the 
floor  with  unwonted  tears  in  his  eyes  and  almost  agony  on  his 
brow;  and  when  at  last,  he  decided  in  accordance  with  the 


MARY    WALLINOFORD  IS 

prevailing  sentiment  of  his  State,  the  Act  of  Secession  and 
all  that  it  involved  became  sacred  in  her  thoughts. 

She  trembled  and  shrank  when  the  phase  of  negotiation 
passed  away,  and  war  was  seen  to  be  the  one  alternative  to 
submission.  She  never  doubted  or  hesitated,  however; 
neither  did  her  father  after  his  mind  was  once  made  up. 
Every  day  the  torrent  of  bitter  feeling  deepened  and  broad- 
ened between  them  and  the  North,  of  which,  practically, 
they  knew  very  little.  Even  such  knowledge  as  they  pos- 
sessed had  come  through  distorted  mediums,  and  now  every- 
thing was  colored  by  the  blackest  prejudice.  They  were 
led  to  believe  and  made  to  feel  that  not  only  their  possessions 
but  their  life  and  honor  were  at  stake.  In  early  years  Mr. 
Burgoyne  had  served  with  distinction  in  the  war  with  Mexico, 
and  he  therefore  promptly  received  a  commission. 

The  effect  of  her  father's  decision  and  action  had  been 
deepened  a  hundred-fold  by  an  event  which  occurred  soon 
afterward.  Among  the  thousands  who  thronged  to  Charles- 
ton when  Fort  Sumter  was  attacked,  was  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  planter  residing  in  the  interior  of  the  State.  This 
young  soldier's  enthusiasm  and  devotion  were  much  bruited 
in  the  city,  because,  waiving  wealth  and  rank,  he  had  served 
as  a  private.  His  fearlessness  at  Eort  Moultrie  enhanced 
his  reputation,  and  when  the  small  garrison  of  heroes,  com- 
manded by  Major  Anderson,  succumbed,  Sidney  Wallingford 
found  that  he  had  been  voted  a  hero  himself,  especially  by 
his  fair  compatriots  with  whom  he  had  formerly  danced 
when  visiting  the  town. 

The  young  fellow's  head  was  not  easily  turned,  however, 
for  when,  at  an  evening  gathering,  a  group  was  lauding 
the  great  achievement  he  said  disdainfully,  "What!  thou- 
sands against  seventy?  Despise  the  Yankees  as  we  may, 
the  odds  were  too  great.  The  only  thing  we  can  plume 
ourselves  upon  is  that  we  would  hav«  fought  just  the  same 
had  the  seventy  been  seven  thousand.  I  think  the  fellows 
did  splendidly,  if  they  were  Yankees,  yet  what  else  could  we 
expect  since  their  commander  was  a  Southern  man?     Oh 


14  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

no!  we  must  wait  till  the  conditions  are  more  even  before 
we  can  exult  over  our  victories.  I  reckon  we'll  have  them 
all  the  same  though/' 

Murmurs  of  approbation  followed  these  remarks,  but  he 
saw  only  the  eloquent  eyes  of  Mary  Burgoyne,  and,  offering 
her  his  arm,  led  her  away. 

The  spring  night  was  as  warm  as  a  June  evening  at  the 
North,  and  they  joined  the  groups  that  were  strolling  under 
the  moonlight  in  the  garden. 

Sidney  felt  the  young  girFs  hand  tremble  on  his  arm,  and 
he  drew  it  closer  to  his  side.  She  soon  asked  falteringly, 
^^Mr.  Wallingford,  do  you  think — will  the  conditions  be- 
come more  even,  as  you  suggested?  Can  it  be  that  the 
iTSTorth  will  be  so  carried  away  by  this  abolition  fanaticism 
as  to  send  armies  and  ships  in  the  vain  effort  to  subjugate 
usT 

^Thank  you,  Miss  Mary,  for  saying  that  it  will  be  a  Vain 
effort.'  " 

^^Of  course  it  will  be,  with  such  men  as  my  father  and  " 
— she  suddenly  hesitated. 

"And  who  else?"  he  gently  asked,  trying  to  look  into 
her  averted  face. 

"Oh — well,"  she  stammered  with  a  forced  little  laugh, 
"thousands  of  brave  fellows  like  you.  You  do  not  answer 
my  question.  Are  we  to  have  anything  like  a  general  war? 
Surely,  there  ought  to  be  enough  good,  wise  men  on  both 
sides  to  settle  the  matter." 

"The  matter  might  be  settled  easily  enough,"  he  replied 
lightly.  "We  know  our  rights,  and  shall  firmly  assert  them. 
If  the  Yankees  yield,  all  well ;  if  not,  we'll  make  'em." 

"But  making  them  may  mean  a  great  war?" 

"Oh,  yes,  some  serious  scrimmages  I  reckon.  We're 
prepared  however,   and  will  soon  bring  the  North   to  its 


senses." 


"If  anything  should  happen  to  my  father!"  she  sighed. 

He   had   led   her   beneath   the   shadow   of   a   palmetto, 

and  now  breathed  into  her  ear,  "Mary,  dear  Mary,  how  much 


MART   WALLINOFORD  15 

I'd  give  to  hear  you  say  in  the  same  tone,  'If  anything 
should  happen  to  Sidney'!"  She  did  not  withdraw  her 
hand  from  his  arm,  and  he  again  felt  it  tremble  more  than 
before  "Mary,"  he  continued  earnestly,  "I  have  asked 
your  father  if  I  might  speak  to  you,  and  he  did  not  deny  me 
the  privilege.  Oh,  Mary,  you  must  haveseen  my  love  in 
my  eyes  and  heard  it  in  my  tones  long  smce.  Mary,  he 
concluded  impetuously,  "let  me  but  feel  that  I  am  defend- 
ing you  as  well  as  my  State,  and  I  can  and  will  be  a  soldier 

in  very  truth."  ,^,     , 

She  suddenly  turned  and  sobbed  on  his  shoulder,  Ihat  s 
what  I  fear,— I  can  hide  my  secret  from  you  no  longer— 
that's  what  I  fear.  Those  I  love  will  be  exposed  to  sudden 
and  terrible  death.     I  am  not  brave  at  all."  ,    ,    ,  , . 

"Shall  I  go  home  and  plant  cotton?"  he  asked,  hall 

^^^^il'  no,  a  thousand  times  no,"  she  cried  passionately. 
"Have  I  not  seen  the  deep  solemnity  with  which  my  father 
accepted  duty  so  foreign  to  his  tastes  and  habits?  Can  you 
think  I  would  wish  you  to  shrink  or  fail-yoii  who  are  so 
strong  and  brave?  No,  no,  in  very  truth.  Self  must  mean 
only  self-sacrifice  until  our  sacred  cause  is  won.  Xet  tmnK 
twice,  Sidney,  before  you  bind  yourself  to  me.  I  fear  I  am 
not  so  brave  as  other  women  appear  to  be  in  these  times. 
My  heart  shrinks  unspeakably  from  war  and  bloodshed. 
Although  I  shall  not  falter,  I  shall  suffer  agomes  of  dread. 
I  cannot  let  you  go  to  danger  with  stern  words  and  dry 
eyes     I  fear  you'll  find  me  too  weak  to  be  a  soldier  s  wi±e. 

He  led  her  into  deeper  and  shadier  seclusion  as  he 
asked,  "Do  you  think  I'll  hesitate  because  you  have  a  h^ 
in  your  bosom  instead  of  a  stone?  No,  my  darlmg.  We 
must  keep  a  brave  aspect  to  the  world,  but  my  heart  is  as 
tender  toward  you  as  yours  toward  me.  What  else  m 
God's  universe  could  I  dread  more  than  harm  to  you  i  Unt 
there  is  little  cause  to  fear.  The  whole  South  will  soon  be 
with  us,  foreign  nations  will  recognize  us  as  an  independent 
people,  and  then  we  wiU  dictate  our  own  terms  of  peace; 


16  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

then  you  shall  be  my  bride  in  this,  our  proud  city  by  the 


sea/^ 


He  kissed  away  her  tears,  and  they  strolled  through  the 
shadowy  walks  until  each  had  regained  the  composure  essen- 
tial in  the  bright  drawing-rooms. 

A  commission  with  the  rank  of  captain  was  speedily 
offered  young  Wallingford.  He  accepted  it,  but  said  he 
would  return  home  and  raise  his  own  company.  This 
action  was  also  applauded  by  his  friends  and  the  authorities. 
Mary  saw  her  father  smile  approvingly  and  proudly  upon 
her  choice,  and  he  became  her  ideal  hero  as  well  as  lover. 

He  fulfilled  his  promises,  and  before  many  weeks  passed, 
re-entered  Charleston  with  a  hundred  brave  fellows,  devoted 
to  him.  The  company  was  incorporated  into  one  of  the 
many  regiments  forming,  and  Mr.  Burgoyne  assured  his 
daughter  that  the  young  captain  was  sure  of  promotion,  and 
would  certainly  make  a  thorough  soldier. 

Even  in  those  early  and  lurid  days  a  few  things  were 
growing  clear,  and  among  them  was  the  fact  that  the  North 
would    not    recognize    the    doctrine    of    State    Rights,    nor 
peaceably  accept  the  Act  of  Secession.     Soldiers  would  be 
needed, — how  long  no  one  knew,  for  the  supreme  question 
of  the  day  had  passed  from  the  hands  of  statesmen  to  those 
of  the  soldier.     The  lack  of  mutual  knowledge,  the  mis- 
apprehension and  the  gross  prejudices  existing  between  the 
two  sections,  would  have  been  ludicrous  had  they  not  been 
fraught   with  such  long-continued   woes.     Southern  papers 
published  such   stuff  as  this:   "The   Northern  soldiers  are 
men   who    prefer   enlisting   to    starvation;    scurvy    fellows 
from  the  back  slums  of  cities,  with  whom  Falstaff  would 
not    have    marched    through    Coventry.     Let    them    come 
South,  and  we  will  put  our  negroes  at  the  dirty  work  of 
killing  them.     But  they  will  not  come  South.     Not  a  wretch 
of  them  will  live  on  this  side  of  the  border  longer  than  it 
will  take  us  to  reach  the  ground  and  drive  them  off."     The 
Northern   press  responded   in  kind:  "No  man   of  sense," 
it  was  declared,  "could  for  a  moment  doubt  that  this  much- 


MAEY    WALUNOFORD  17 

ado-about-nothing  would  end  in  a  month.  The  Northern 
people  are  simply  invincible.  The  rebels,  a  mere  band  of 
ragamuffins,  will  flj  like  chaff  before  the  wind  on  our  ap- 
proach." Thus  the  wretched  farces  of  bluster  continued  on 
either  side  until  in  blood,  agony,  and  heartbreak,  Americana 
learned  to  know  Americans. 

President  Lincoln,  however,  had  called  out  seventy-five 
thousand  troops,  and  these  men  were  not  long  in  learning 
that  they  could  not  walk  over  the  South  in  three  months. 
The  South  also  discovered  that  these  same  men  could  not  be 
terrified  into  abandoning  the  attempt.  There  were  thought- 
ful men  on  both  sides  who  early  began  to  recognize  the 
magnitude  of  the  struggle  upon  which  they  had  entered. 
Among  these  was  Major  Burgoyne,  and  the  presentiment 
grew  upon  him  that  he  would  not  see  the  end  of  the  conflict. 
When,  therefore,  impetuous  young  Wallingford  urged  that 
he  might  call  Mary  his  wife  before  he  marched  to  distant 
battlefields,  the  father  yielded,  feeling  that  it  might  be  well 
for  her  to  have  another  protector  besides  himself.  The 
union  was  solemnized  in  old  St.  Michael's  Church,  where 
Mary's  mother  and  grandmother  had  been  married  before 
her;  a  day  or  two  of  quiet  and  happiness  was  vouchsafed, 
and  then  came  the  tidings  of  the  first  great  battle  of  the  war. 
Charleston  responded  with  acclamations  of  triumph;  bells 
sent  out  their  merriest  peals;  cannon  thundered  from  every 
fort  on  the  harbor,  but  Mary  wept  on  her  husband's  breast. 
Among  the  telegrams  of  victory  had  come  an  order  for  his 
regiment  to  go  North  immediately.  Not  even  a  brief 
honeymoon  was  permitted  to  her. 


18  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  II 

love's    agony 

As  the  exaggerated  reports  of  a  magnificent  Confederate 
victory  at  Bull  Run  continued  to  pour  in,  Major 
Burgoyne  shared  for  a  time  in  the  general  elation, 
believing  that  independence,  recognition  abroad,  and  peace 
had  been  virtually  secured.  All  the  rant  about  !N"orthem 
cowardice  appeared  to  be  confirmed,  and  he  eagerly  waited 
for  the  announcement  that  Washington  had  been  captured 
by  Johnston's  victorious  army. 

Instead,  came  the  dismal  tidings  from  his  only  sister  that 
her  husband.  Captain  Hunter,  had  been  killed  in  the  battle 
over  which  he  had  been  rejoicing.  Then  for  some  myste- 
rious reason  the  Southern  army  did  not  follow  the  Federals, 
who  had  left  the  field  in  such  utter  rout  and  panic.  It  soon 
appeared  that  the  contending  forces  were  occupying  much 
the  same  positions  as  before.  News  of  the  second  great 
uprising  of  the  North  followed  closely,  and  presaged  any- 
thing but  a  speedy  termination  of  the  conflict.  Major 
Burgoyne  was  not  a  Hotspur,  and  he  grew  thoughtful  and 
depressed  in  spirit,  although  he  sedulously  concealed  the 
fact  from  his  associates.  The  shadow  of  coming  events 
began  to  fall  upon  him,  and  his  daughter  gradually  divined 
his  lack  of  hopefulness.  The  days  were  already  sad  and  full 
of  anxiety,  for  her  husband  was  absent.  He  had  scouted 
the  idea  of  the  Yankees  standing  up  before  the  impetuous 
onset  of  the  Southern  soldiers,  and  his  words  had  apparently 
proved  true,  yet  even  those  Northern  cowards  had  killed 
one  closely  allied  to  her  before  they  fled.     Remembering, 


LOVES    AGONY  19 

therefore,  her  husband's  headlong  courage,  what  assurance 
of  his  safety  could  she  have  although  victory  followed 
victory  ? 

Major  Burgoyne  urged  his  widowed  sister  to  leave  her 
plantation  in  the  charge  of  an  overseer  and  make  her  home 
with  him.  ^'You  are  too  near  the  probable  theatre  of  military 
operations  to  be  safe,"  he  wrote,  ^'and  my  mind  cannot  rest 
till  you  are  with  us  in  this  city  which  we  are  rapidly  making 
impregnable.''  The  result  was  that  she  eventually  became 
a  member  of  his  family.  Her  stern,  sad  face  added  to  the 
young  wife's  depression,  for  the  stricken  woman  had  been 
rendered  intensely  bitter  by  her  loss.  Mary  was  too  gentle 
in  nature  to  hate  readily,  yet  wrathful  gleams  would  be 
emitted  at  times  even  from  her  blue  eyes,  as  her  aunt 
inveighed  in  her  hard  monotone  against  the  "monstrous 
wrong  of  the  North."  They  saw  their  side  with  such  down- 
right sincerity  and  vividness  that  the  offenders  appeared  to  be 
beyond  the  pale  of  humanity.  Few  men,  even  though  the 
frosts  of  many  winters  had  cooled  their  blood  and  ripened 
their  judgment,  could  reason  dispassionately  in  those  days, 
much  less  women,  whose  hearts  were  kept  on  the  rack  of  tor- 
ture by  the  loss  of  dear  ones  or  the  dread  of  such  loss. 

It  is  my  purpose  to  dwell  upon  the  war,  its  harrowing 
scenes  and  intense  animosities,  only  so  far  as  may  be  essen- 
tial to  account  for  my  characters  and  to  explain  subsequent 
events.  The  roots  of  personality  strike  deep,  and  the  tap- 
root, heredity,  runs  back  into  the  being  of  those  who  lived 
and  suffered, before  we  were  born. 

Gentle  Mary  Burgoyne  should  have  been  part  of  a  hap- 
pier day  and  generation.  The  bright  hopes  of  a  speedily  con- 
quered peace  were  dying  away;  the  foolish  bluster  on  both 
sides  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  had  ceased,  and  the  truth 
so  absurdly  ignored  at  first,  that  Americans,  North  and  South, 
would  fight  with  equal  courage,  was  made  clearer  by  every 
battle.  The  heavy  blows  received  by  the  South,  however, 
did  not  change  her  views  as  to  the  wisdom  and  righteousness 
of  her  cause,  and  she  continued  to  return  blows  at  which 


20  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

the  armies  of  the  North  reeled,  stunned  and  bleeding. 
Mary  was  not  permitted  to  exult  very  long,  however,  for  the 
terrible  pressure  was  quickly  renewed  with  an  unwavering 
pertinacity  which  created  misgivings  in  the  stoutest  hearts. 
The  Federals  had  made  a  strong  lodgment  on  the  coast  of 
her  own  State,  and  were  creeping  nearer  and  nearer,  often 
repulsed  yet  still  advancing  as  if  impelled  by  the  remorseless 
principle  of  fate. 

At  last,  in  the  afternoon  of  a  day  early  in  April,  events 
occurred  never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed  them. 
Admiral  Dupont  with  his  armored  ships  attempted  to  reduce 
Fort  Sumter  and  capture  the  city.  Thousands  of  specta- 
tors watched  the  awful  conflict;  Mary  Wallingford  and  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Hunter,  among  them.  The  combined  roar  of  the 
guns  exceeded  all  the  thunder  they  had  ever  heard.  About 
three  hundred  Confederate  cannon  were  concentrated  on  the 
turreted  monitors,  and  some  of  the  commanders  said  that 
"shot  struck  the  vessels  as  fast  as  the  ticking  of  a  watch." 
It  would  seem  that  the  ships  which  appeared  so  diminutive 
in  the  distance  must  be  annihilated,  yet  Mary  with  her 
powerful  glass  saw  them  creep  nearer  and  nearer.  It  was 
their  shots,  not  those  of  her  friends,  that  she  watched  with 
agonized  absorption,  for  every  tremendous  bolt  was  directed 
against  the  fort  in  which  was  her  father. 

The  conflict  was  too  unequal;  the  bottom  of  the  harbor 
was  known  to  be  paved  with  torpedoes,  and  in  less  than  an 
hour  Dupont  withdrew  his  squadron  in  order  to  save  it  from 
destruction. 

In  strong  reaction  from  intense  excitement,  Mary's  knees 
gave  way,  and  she  sank  upon  them  in  thankfulness  to  God. 
Her  aunt  supported  her  to  her  room,  gave  restoratives,  and 
the  daughter  in  deep  anxiety  waited  for  tidings  from  her 
father.  He  did  not  come  to  her;  he  was  brought,  and 
there  settled  down  upon  her  young  life  a  night  of  grief  and 
horror  which  no  words  can  describe.  While  he  was  sighting 
a  gun,  it  had  been  struck  by  a  shell  from  the  fleet,  and  when 
the  smoke  of  the  explosion  cleared  away  he  was  seen  among 


LOVE'S    AGONY  21 

the  debris,  a  mangled  and  unconscious  form.  He  was  ten- 
derly taken  up,  and  after  the  conflict  ended,  conveyed  to 
his  home.  On  the  way  thither  he  partially  revived,  but 
reason  was  gone.  His  eyes  were  scorched  and  blinded,  his 
hearing  destroyed  by  the  concussion,  and  but  one  lingering 
thought  survived  in  the  wreck  of  his  mind.  In  a  plaintive 
and  almost  childlike  tone  he  continually  uttered  the  words, 
"I  was  only  trying  to  defend  my  city  and  my  home." 

Hour  after  hour  he  repeated  this  sentence,  deaf  to  his 
child's  entreaties  for  recognition  and  a  farewell  word.  His 
voice  grew  more  and  more  feeble  until  he  could  only  whisper 
the  sad  refrain;  at  last  his  lips  moved  but  there  was  no 
sound;  then  he  was  still. 

For  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  Mary  would  soon  follow  him, 
but  her  aunt,  her  white  face  tearless  and  stern,  bade  her 
live  for  her  husband  and  her  unborn  child.  These  sacred 
motives  eventually  enabled  her  to  rally,  but  her  heart  now 
centred  its  love  on  her  husband  with  an  intensity  which  made 
her  friends  tremble  for  her  future.  His  visits  had  been  few 
and  brief,  and  she  lived  upon  his  letters.  When  they  were 
delayed,  her  eyes  had  a  hunted,  agonized  look  which  even 
her  stoical  aunt  could  not  endure. 

One  day  about  midsummer  she  found  the  stricken  wife, 
unconscious  upon  the  floor  with  the  daily  paper  in  her 
clenched  hand.  When  at  last  the  physician  had  brought 
back  feeble  consciousness  and  again  banished  it  by  the  es- 
sential opiate,  Mrs.  Hunter  read  the  paragraph  which,  like 
a  bolt,  had  struck  down  her  niece.  It  was  from  an  account 
of  a  battle  in  which  the  Confederates  had  been  worsted  and 
were  being  driven  from  a  certain  vantage  point.  "At  this 
critical  moment,"  ran  the  report,  "Colonel  Wallingford,  with 
his  thinned  regiment,  burst  through  the  crowd  of  fugitives 
rushing  down  the  road,  and  struck  the  pursuing  enemy  such 
a  stinging  blow  as  to  check  its  advance.  If  the  heroic  colonel 
and  his  little  band  could  only  have  been  supported  at 
this  instant  the  position  might  have  been  regained.  As  it 
was,  they  were  simply  overwhelmed  as  a  slight  obstacle  is 


22  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

swept  away  by  a  torrent.  But  few  escaped ;  some  were  cap- 
tured, while  the  colonel  and  the  majority  were  struck  down, 
trampled  upon  and  fairly  obliterated  as  the  Northern  horde 
of  infantry  and  artillery  swept  forward  all  the  more  impetu- 
ously. The  check  was  of  very  great  advantage,  however, 
for  it  gave  our  vastly  outnumbered  troops  more  time  to  rally 
in  a  stronger  position." 

This  brief  paragraph  contained  the  substance  of  all  that 
was  ever  learned  of  the  young  husband,  and  his  mangled  re- 
mains filled  an  unknown  grave.  His  wife  had  received  the 
blow  direct,  and  she  never  rallied.  Week  after  week  she 
moaned  and  wept  upon  her  bed  when  the  physician  permitted 
consciousness.  Even  in  the  deep  sleep  produced  by  opiates, 
she  would  shudder  at  the  sound  of  Gilmore's  guns  as  they 
thundered  against  Forts  Sumter  and  Wagner.  A  faithful 
colored  woman  who  had  been  a  slave  in  the  family  from  in- 
fancy watched  unweariedly  beside  her,  giving  place  only  to 
the  stern-visaged  aunt,  whose  touch  and  words  were  gentle, 
but  who  had  lost  the  power  to  disguise  the  bitterness  of  her 
heart.  She  tried  to  awaken  maternal  instincts  in  the  wife,  but 
in  vain,  for  there  are  wounds  of  the  spirit,  like  those  of  the 
body,  which  are  fatal.  All  efforts  to  induce  the  widow  to 
leave  the  city,  already  within  reach  of  the  Federal  guns,  were 
unavailing,  and  she  was  the  more  readily  permitted  to  have 
her  own  way,  because,  in  the  physician's  opinion,  the  attempt 
would  prove  fatal. 

Meanwhile  her  time  was  drawing  near.  One  August 
night  she  was  dozing,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep,  when  sud- 
denly there  was  a  strange,  demoniac  shriek  through  the  air 
followed  by  an  explosion  which  in  the  still  night  was  ter- 
rifically loud.  The  invalid  started  up  and  looked  wildly  at 
her  sable  nurse,  who  was  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"O  Lawd  hab  mercy.  Missus,"  she  exclaimed.  *T3em 
Yankees  shellin'  de  town." 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  instantly  at  the  bedside.  The  faithful 
doctor  came  hurriedly  of  his  own  accord,  and  employed  all 
his  skill. 


LOVE'S    AGONY  28 

A  few  hours  later  Mrs.  Hunter  tried  to  say  cheerily, 
^'Come,  Mary,  here  is  a  fine  little  girl  for  you  to  love  and 
live  for." 

"Aunty,"  said  the  mother  calmly,  "I  am  dying.  Let  me 
see  my  child  and  kiss  her.  Then  put  her  next  my  heart  till 
it  is  cold." 

Mrs.  Hunter  lifted  her  startled  eyes  to  the  physician,  who 
sadly  nodded  his  head  in  acquiescence.  In  a  few  moments 
more  the  broken  heart  found  healing  far  beyond  all  human 
passion  and  strife. 

With  hot,  yet  tearless  eyes,  and  a  face  that  appeared  to 
be  chiselled  from  marble  in  its  whiteness  and  rigidity,  the 
aunt  took  up  the  child.  Her  tone  revealed  the  indescrib- 
able intensity  of  her  feelings  as  she  said,  "Thy  name  is 
Mara — bitterness." 


24  TEE  EARTH   TREMBLED 


CHAPTEE  III 

UNCLE  SHEBA'S  EXPERIENCE 

MANY  years  have  elapsed  since  the  events  narrated  in 
the  last  chapter  occurred,  and  the  thread  of  story 
is  taken  up  again  in  the  winter  of  1886.  In  a  small 
dwelling,  scarcely  more  than  a  cabin,  and  facing  on  an 
obscure  alley  in  Charleston,  a  rotund  colored  won  of  un- 
certain age  is  sitting  by  the  fire  with  her  husband.  She 
is  a  well-known  character  in  the  city,  for  she  earns  her 
bread  by  selling  cakes,  fruits,  and  other  light  articles  which 
may  be  vended  in  the  street  with  chances  of  profit.  Al- 
though "Aun'  Sheba,"  as  she  was  familiarly  called,  had 
received  no  training  for  mercantile  pursuits,  yet  her  native 
shrewdness  had  enabled  her  to  hit  upon  the  principles  of 
success,  as  may  be  discovered  by  the  reader  as  the  story 
progresses.  She  had  always  been  so  emphatically  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  and  the  head  of  the  family,  that  her  hus- 
band went  by  the  name  of  "Uncle  Sheba."  It  must  be 
admitted  that  the  wife  shared  in  the  popular  opinion  of  her 
husband. 

When  in  an  amiable  mood,  which,  happily,  was  her 
usual  condition  of  mind,  she  addressed  him  as  *'Unc. ;" 
when  some  of  his  many  short-comings  exhausted  her  good- 
nature— for  Aun'  Sheba  had  more  good- nature  than  pa- 
tience— he  was  severely  characterized  as  "Mr.  Buggone." 
Since  they  had  been  brought  up  in  Major  Burgoyne's 
family,  they  felt  entitled  to  his  surname,  and  by  evolution 
it  had  become  "Buggone.'*  Uncle  Sheba's  heart  failed  him 
when  his  wife  addressed  him  by  this  title,  for  he  knew  he 


UNCLE   SHEBA'S    EXPERIENCE  25 

was  beyond  the  dead  line  of  safety.  They  dwelt  alone  in 
the  cabin,  their  several  children,  with  one  exception,  having 
been  scattered  they  knew  not  where.  Adjacent  was  another 
cabin,  owned  by  a  son-in-law,  named  Kern  Watson,  who 
had  married  their  youngest  daughter  years  before,  and  he 
was  the  pride  of  Aun'  Shaba's  heart.  Uncle  Sheba  felt  that 
he  was  not  appreciated,  or  perhaps  appreciated  too  well,  by 
his  son-in-law,  and  their  intercourse  was  rather  formal. 

On  the  evening  in  question,  supper  was  over,  but  the 
table  had  not  yet  been  cleared.  Uncle  Sheba  was  a  good 
deal  of  an  epicure,  and,  having  left  not  a  scrap  of  what  his 
wife  had  vouchsafed  to  him,  was  now  enjoying  his  corn-cob 
pipe.  Aun'  Sheba  also  liked  a  good  square  meal  as  much 
as  any  one,  and  she  had  the  additional  satisfaction  that  she 
had  earned  it.  At  this  hour  of  the  day  she  was  usually 
very  tired,  and  was  accustomed  to  take  an  hour's  rest  be- 
fore putting  her  living-room  in  order  for  the  night.  Al- 
though the  twilight  often  fell  before  she  returned  from 
her  mercantile  pursuits,  she  never  intrusted  Uncle  Sheba 
with  the  task  of  getting  supper,  and  no  housekeeper  in  the 
city  kept  her  provisions  under  lock  and  key  more  rigorously 
than  did  Aun'  Sheba.  After  repeated  trials,  she  had  come 
to  a  decision.  "Mr.  Buggone,"  she  had  said  in  her  sternest 
tones,  "you's  wuss  dan  poah  white  trash  when  you  gets  a 
chance  at  de  cubbard.  Sence  I  can't  trus'  you  nohow,  I'se 
gwine  to  gib  you  a  'lowance.  You  a  high  ole  Crischun, 
askin'  for  you'se  daily  bread,  an'  den  eatin'  up  'nuff  fer 
a  week." 

Uncle  Sheba  often  complained  that  he  was  "skimped," 
but  his  appearance  did  not  indicate  any  meagreness  in  his 
"'lowance,"  and  he  had  accepted  his  lot  in  this  mstance, 
as  in  others,  rather  than  lose  the  complacent  consciousness 
that  he  was  provided  for  without  much  effort  on  his  part. 

Supper  was  Aun'  Sheba's  principal  meal,  and  she  prac- 
tically dined  at  the  fashionable  hour  of  six.  What  she 
termed  her  dinner  was  a  very  uncertain  affair.     Sometimes 

she  swallowed  it  hastily  at  "Ole  Tobe's  rasteran,"  as  she 

B— Roe— XV 


26  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

termed  the  eating-room  kept  by  a  white  woolled  negro; 
again  she  would  "happen  in"  on  a  church  sister,  when,  in 
passing,  the  odor  of  some  cookery  was  appetizing.  She 
always  left,  however,  some  compensation  from  her  basket, 
and  so  was  not  unwelcome.  Not  seldom,  also,  a  lady  or  a 
citizen  who  knew  her  well  and  the  family  to  which  she  had 
once  belonged,  would  tell  her  to  go  to  the  kitchen.  On 
such  days  Aun'  Sheba's  appetite  flagged  at  supper,  a  fact 
over  which  her  husband  secretly  rejoiced,  since  his  allow- 
ance was  almost  double. 

She  was  now  resting  after  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and 
the  effort  to  get  and  dispose  of  a  very  substantial  supper, 
and  was  puffing  at  her  pipe  in  a  meditative  aspect.  Evi- 
dently something  unusual  was  on  her  mind,  and  she  at  last 
ejaculated,  ''1  know  dey'se  poah." 

''Who's?"  languidly  queried  Uncle  Sheba. 

"Oh,  you'd  neber  fin'  out.     Dey'd  starve  long  o'  you," 

"I  dunno  who  dey  is.     What 'casion  1  got  to  pervide 

fordey?" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,  Unc. !  You'se  a  great  pervider.  Somehow 
or  Oder  I'se  got  de  notion  dat  you'se  a  'sumer." 

"I  bress  de  Lawd  my  appetite  ain'  failin'  in  spite  ob  de 
rheumatiz. 

"If  you  rheumatiz  was  only  in  you  jints,  dere'd  be  a 
comfort  in  keerin'  fer  you,  Unc,  but  it's  in  you  min'." 

"You'll  cotch  it  some  day,  an'  den  you  know  what  'tis. 
But  who's  dey  dat  you  got  on  you  min'?" 

"Why,  de  young  Missy  and  de  ole  Missus  to  be  sho'." 

"I  don't  see  how  dey  can  be  poah.  Dey  mus'  hab  kep' 
someting  out  all  dey  had. 

"So  dey  did,  but  it  wan't  much,  an'  I  jus'  b'lebe  it's  clar 

dun  gone!" 

"What!  de  plantation  in  Virginny  all  gone?" 

"How  often  I  tole  you,  Unc,  dat  I  heard  ole  Missus  say 

herself  dat  plantation  was  all  trompl'd  in  de  groun'  an'  what 

was  lef  was  took  fer  taxes." 

"1  forgits,"  remarked   Uncle  Sheba,  his  eyes  growing 


UNCLE   SHEBA'S    EXPERIENCE  27 

heavy  in  bis  lack  of  interest;  ''but  ole  Marse  Wallingford 
mus'  bab  lef'  de  widder  ob  bis  son  someting. " 

"Now  look  heah,  Unc,  you'se  baf  asleep.  You'se  'low- 
ance  too  bebby  dis  ebenin'.  How  you  forgit  wben  I  tell  you 
ober  an'  ober?  You  doan  keer.  Dat's  de  foot  de  sboe's 
on.  You  know  ole  Marse  Wallingford's  plantation  was 
trompl'd  in  de  groun'  too — not  a  stick  or  stone  lef  by 
Sberman's  sogers." 

"Well,  dey  sole  dere  fine  bouse  on  Meetin'  Street,  an' 
dat  mus'  a  brougbt  a  heap,"  protested  Uncle  Sbeba,  rousing 
himself  a  little. 

"Mighty  little  arter  de  mor'giges  an'  taxes  was  paid. 
Didn't  I  help  dem  pack  up  what  dey  tmk  dey  could  sabe, 
and  see  poab  Missy  Mara  wrung  her  ban's  as  she  gib  up 
dis  ting  an'  dat  ting  till  at  las'  she  cry  right  out,  'Mought 
as  well  gib  up  eberyting.  Why  don't  dey  kill  us  too,  like 
dey  did  all  our  folks  ?'  You  used  to  be  so  hot  fer  dat  ole 
Guv'ner  Moses  and  say  he  was  like  de  Moses  in  de  Bible — 
dat  he  was  raised  up  fer  ter  lead  de  culled  people  to  de 
promise'  Ian'.  You  vote  fer  him,  an'  hurrah  fer  him,  an' 
whar's  yer  promise'  Ian'?  Little  you  know  'bout  Scripter 
when  you  say  he  secon'  Moses.  Don'  want  no  more  sich 
Moseses  in  dis  town.  Dey  wouldn't  lebe  a  brick  heah  ef 
dey  could  take  dem  off.  He'n  his  tribe  got  away  wid  'bout 
all  ole  Missus'  and  young  Missus'  prop'ty  in  my  'pinion. 
Anyhow  I  feels  it  in  my  bones  dey's  poah,  an'  I  mus'  try 
an'  fin'  out.    Dey's  so  proud  dey'd  star  be  fore  dey'd  let  on. " 

"'Spose  you  does  fin'  out,  what  kin  you  do  ?  You  gwine 
ter  buy  back  de  big  house  fer  dem  ?" 

"I'se  not  de  one  ter  talk  big  'bout  what  I'se  gwine  ter 
do,"  replied  Aun'  Sheba,  nodding  her  head  portentously  as 
she  knocked  the  ashes  from  her  pipe  and  prepared  for  the 
remaining  tasks  of  the  evening. 

Her  husband's  self-interest  took  alarm  at  once,  and  he 
began  to  hitch  uneasily  on  his  chair.  At  last  he  broke  out: 
"Now  look  heah,  Aun'  Sheba,  you'se  got  suffin  on  you' 
min'  'bout  dem  white  folks — " 


28  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Dem  white  folks!     Who  you  talkin'  'boat?" 

"Well,  dey  ain't  none  o'  oar  flesh  an'  blood,  and  de 
Bible  say  shuah  dat  dey  dat  don'  pervide  fer  dere  own  flesh 
an'  blood  am  wass  dan  a  inferdel." 

"Den  I  reckon  yoa'se  an  inferdel,  Mister  Baggone,"  re- 
torted Aun'  Sheba,  severely. 

"I'se  not,"  retorted  her  hasband,  assaming  much  sol- 
emnity, "I'se  a  'umble  an'  'flicted  sarbent  ob  de  Lawd,  an' 
it's  my  duty  to  'monstrate  wid  you.  I  know  what's  on  you' 
min'.  You'se  gwine  ter  do  fer  dem  white  folks  when  you 
got  all  you  kin  do  now." 

"Mister  Buggone,  don'  you  call  Miss  Mara  white  folks 

no  mo'." 

"Well,  ain  t  she  white  folks?  Didn't  I  slabe  fer  her 
granpar  yeahs  an'  yeahs,  an'  wat  I  got  ter  show  fer  't?" 

"You  got  no  stripes  on  you  back,  an'  you'd  had  plenty 
ter  show  ef  you'd  waked  fer  any  oder  man.  I  'member  all 
about  you  slabin'  an'  how  de  good  major  use'  to  let  you 
ofi.  You  know,  too,  dat  he  war  so  took  up  wid  his  book 
dat  you  could  do  foolishness  right  under  his  nose.  An'  dar 
was  my  poah  young  Missy  Mary,  who  hadn't  de  heart  to 
hurt  a  skeeter.  You  s'pose  1  watch  ober  dat  broken-hearted 
lam'  an'  her  little  chile  an'  den  heah  'em  called  white  folks, 
as  if  dey'se  no  'count  ter  me?  How  ofen  dat  poah  dyin' 
lam'  turn  to  me  in  de  middle  ob  de  night  an'  say  ter  me, 
Sheba,  you  will  took  keer  on  my  chile'  ef  it  libe,  an'  I  say 
to  her  'fore  de  Lawd  dat  1  would.  An'  I  did  too.  Dat  po' 
little  moderless  and  faderless  chile  lay  on  my  bosom  till 
I  lubed  it  fer  hersef,  and  Missy  Mara  neber  gwine  to  hab 
trubble  when  I  ain't  dar." 

Aun'  Sheba's  voice  had  been  reaching  a  higher  and 
higher  key  under  the  influence  of  reminiscence  and  indig- 
nation. Although  her  husband. was  in  dire  trepidation  he 
felt  that  this  point  was  too  serious  to  be  yielded  without 
a  desperate  eflort.  He  had  been  put  on  short  allowance  once 
before  when  his  wife  had  gone  to  help  take  care  of  Mara  in 
a  severe  illness,  and  now  he  had  a  presentiment  that  Aun' 


UNCLE   SHEBA'S   EXPERIENCE 


29 


Sheba  would  try  to  help  support  the  girl  and  her  great- 
aunt  as  well  as  himself.  Such  an  attempt  threatened  priva- 
tions Which  were  harrowing  even  to  contemplate,  and  in 
a  sort  of  desperation  he  resolved  once  more  to  assert  his 
marital  position.  '' Aun'  Sheba,"  he  began  with  much  dig- 
nity, '^I'se  been  bery  easy  an'  bendin'  like  ter  you.  I'se 
gib 'you  you'se  own  head  dead  agin  de  principles  ob 
Scripter  which    say   dat  de   husban'   am   de   head  ob  de 

wife — "  ,  r^,    ,     . 

''Mister  Buggone,"  interrupted  Aun  Sheba  in  a  passion 
which  was  bursting  all  restraint,  ''you'se  wrestm'  Scripter 
to  you'se  own  'struction.    Ef  you  am  de  head  ob  dis  fam'ly, 
I'se  gwine  ter  sit  down  an  fole  my  bans,  an  you  can  jes' 
git  out  an  earn  my  libin'  an'  yours  too.     Git  up  dar  now, 
an'  bring  in  de  wood  an'  de  kinlin'  fer  de  mawnin',  an' 
when  mawnin'  come,  you  make  de  fiah.     Arter  breakfas' 
you  start  right  off  ter  work,  and  I'se  sit  on  de  do'  step  and 
talk  to  de  neighbos.     You  shall  hab  all  de  headin  ob  de 
house  you    wants,   but  you    can't    hab   de  'sition    widout 
de   'sponsibilities.     I'se  gwine   now  to  take  a  res'  an'   be 
'sported,"  and  the  irate  wife  filled  her  pipe,  sat  down  and 
smoked  furiously.  , 

Uncle  Sheba  was  appalled  at  the  result  of  his  Scriptural 
argument.  He  would  like  to  be  king  by  divine  right  with- 
out any  responsibilities.  His  one  thought  now  was  to  es- 
cape  until  the  storm  blew  over  and  his  wife's  tolerant  good- 
nature resumed  its  wonted  sway.  Shuffling  cautiously 
around  to  the  door  he  remarked  meekly  as  he  held  it  ajar, 
"I  reckon  I'll  drap  in  at  de  prar-meetin',  fer  I  tole  brudder 
Simpkins  I'd  gib  dem  a  lif  dis  ebenin'." 

His  heart  misgave  him  as  he  heard  his  wife  bound  up 
and  bolt  the  door  after  him,  but  he  was  a  philosopher  who 
knew  the  value  of  time  in  remedying  many  of  the  ills  of 
life  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  could  not  get  into  the 
spirit  of  the  meeting,  and  Brother  Simpkins  remarked  rather 
severely  at  its  close,  "Mister  Buggone,  I'se  feared  you  se 
zeal  am  languishm'." 


30  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Uncle  Sheba's  forebodings  increased  as  he  saw  that  his 
house  was  dark,  and  he  fell  into  something  like  panic  when 
he  found  that  the  door  was  still  bolted.  He  knocked  gently 
at  first,  then  louder  and  louder,  adding  to  the  uproar  by 
calls  and  expostulations.  A  light  appeared  in  the  adjacent 
cottage,  and  Kern  Watson,  his  son-in-law,  came  out.  "Wat 
de  matter  now,  QncleSheba?"  he  asked.  "Does  yer  wan' 
ter  bring  de  perlice  ?  Yoa'se  been  takin'  a  drap  too  much 
again,  1  reckon." 

"No,  I'se  only  been  to  prar-meetin',  and  Aun'  Sheba  jes' 
dun  gone  and  bolt  me  out." 

"Well,  you'se  been  cuttin'  up  some  shine,  an'  dat's  a 
fac'.  Come  in  an'  stop  you  noise.  You  can  sleep  on  de 
lounge.  We  don'  want  to  pay  ten  doUahs  in  de  mawnin  to 
get  you  out  ob  de  caboose." 

Uncle  Sheba  was  glad  to  avail  himself  of  this  rather 
equivocal  hospitality,  and  eagerly  sought  to  win  Kern's 
sympathy  by  relating  his  grievance.  His  son-in-law  leaned 
against  the  chimney- side  that  he  might,  in  his  half -dressed 
condition,  enjoy  the  warmth  of  the  coals  covered  with  ashes 
on  the  hearth,  and  listened.  He  was  a  tall,  straight  negro 
of  powerful  build,  and  although  his  features  were  African, 
they  were  not  gross  in  character.  The  candle  on  the  mantel 
near  him  brought  out  his  profile  in  fine  silhouette,  while  his 
quiet  steady  eyes  indicated  a  nature  not  stirred  by  trifles. 

"You'se  a  'publican,  Kern,  an'  you  knows  dat  we  culled 
people  got  ter  take  keer  ob  ourselves." 

"Yes,  I'se  a  Republican,"  said  Kern,  "but  wat  dat  got 
ter  do  wid  dis  matter  ?  Is  Aun'  Sheba  gwine  ter  take  any 
ob  your  money?  Ef  she  set  her  heart  on  helpin'  her  ole 
Missus  an'  young  Missy  an'  arn  de  money  herself,  whose  busi- 
ness is  it  but  hers?  I'se  a  Republican  because  I  belebe  in 
people  bein'  free,  wedder  dey  is  white  or  black,  but  I  ain't 
one  ob  dem  kin'  ob  Republicans  dat  look  on  white  folks  as 
inemies.  Wot  we  do  widout  dem,  an'  wat  dey  do  widout  us  ? 
All  talk  ob  one  side  agin  de  toder  is  fool  talk.  Ef  dere's 
any  pro,3perity  in  dis  Ian'  we  got  ter  pull  tergedder.    You'se 


UNCLE    SHEBA'S    EXPERIENCE  31 

free,  Qncle  Sheba,  an'  dere  ain't  a  man  in  Charleston  dat 
kin  hender  you  from  goin'  to  work  termorrow." 

"I  reckon  I'se  try  ter  git  a  wink  ob  slepe,  Kern,"  re- 
sponded Uncle  Sheba  plaintively.  ''My  narbes  been  so 
shook  up  dat  my  rheumatiz  will  be  po'ful  bad  for  a  spell." 

Kern  knew  the  futility  of  further  words,  and  also  betook 
himself  to  rest. 

With  Aun'  Sheba,  policy  had  taken  the  place  of  passion. 
Through  a  knot-hole  in  her  cabin  she  had  seen  her  husband 
admitted  to  her  son-in-law's  dwelling,  and  so  her  mind  was 
at  rest.  ''Unc,"  she  muttered,  "forgits  his  'sper'ence  at  de 
prar-meetin's  bery  easy,  but  he  mus'  have  a  'sper'ence 
to-night  dat  he  won't  forgit.  I  neber  so  riled  in  my  bawn 
days.  Ei  he  tinks  I  can  sit  heah  and  see  him  go'mandizin' 
when  my  honey  lam'  Mara  hungry,  he'll  fin'  out." 

Belore  the  dawn  on  the  following  day.  Uncle  Sheba  had 
had  time  for  many  second  thoughts,  and  when  his  wife 
opened  the  door  he  brought  in  plenty  of  kindlings  and 
wood.  Aun'  Sheba  accepted  these  marks  of  submission  in 
grim  silence,  resolving  that  peace  and  serenity  should  come 
about  gradually.  She  relented  so  far,  however,  as  to  give 
him  an  extra  slice  of  bacon  for  breakfast,  at  which  token  of 
returning  toleration  Uncle  Sheba  took  heart  again.  Having 
curtly  told  him  to  clear  the  table,  Aun'  Sheba  proceeded  to 
make  from  the  finest  of  flour  the  delicate  cakes  which  she 
always  sold  fresh  and  almost  warm  from  her  stove,  and  be- 
fore starting  out  on  her  vending  tour  of  the  streets,  the 
store-room  was  locked  against  the  one  burglar  she  feared. 


32  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER   IV 

MARA 

ON  the  same  evening  which  witnessed  Uncle  Sheba's 
false  step  and  its  temporarily  disastrous  results, 
Owen   Clancy   sat   brooding   over   his   fire  in  his 
bachelor  apartment.     If  his  sitting-room  did  not  suggest 
wealth,  it  certainly  indicated  refined  and  intellectual  tastes 
and  a  fair  degree  of  prosperity.     A  few  fine  pictures  were 
on  the  walls,  an  unusually  well-selected  library,  although 
a  small  one,  was  in  a  bookcase,  while  upon  the  table  lay 
several  of  the  best  magazines  and  reviews  of  the  period. 
Above  the  mantel  was  suspended  a  cavalry  sabre,  its  scab- 
bard so  dented  as  to  suggest  that  it  had  seen  much  and  se- 
vere service.     Young  Clancy's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it,  and 
his  revery  was  so  deep  that  a  book  fell  from  his  hand  to 
the  floor  without  his  notice.     His  thoughts,  however,  were 
dwelling  upon  a  young  girl.     Strange  that  a  deadly  weapon 
should  be  allied  to  her  in  association.     Yet  so  it  was.     He 
never  could  look  upon  that  sabre  which  his  father  had  used 
effectively  throughout  the  Civil  War,  without  thinking  of 
Mara  Wallingford.     Neither  this  object  nor  any  other  was 
required  to  produce  thoughts  of   her,  for  he  passed  few 
waking  hours  in  which  she  was  not  present  to  his  fancy. 
He  loved  her  sincerely,  and  felt  that  she  knew  it,  and  he 
also  hoped  that  she  concealed  a  deeper  regard  for  him  than 
she  would  admit  even  to  herself.    Indeed  he  almost  believed 
that  if  he  could  share  fully  with  her  all  the  ideas  and  antip- 
athies symbolized  by  the  battered  scabbard  before  him,  his 


MARA  33 

course  of  love  would  run  smoothly.  It  was  just  at  this  point 
that  the  trouble  between  them  arose.  She  was  looking 
back;  he,  forward.  He  could  not  enter  into  her  sad  and 
bitter  retrospection,  feeling  that  this  was  morbid  and  worse 
than  useless.  Remembering  how  cruelly  she  and  her  kin- 
dred had  suffered,  he  made  great  allowances  for  her,  and 
had  often  tried  to  soften  the  bitterness  m  her  heart  by  re- 
minding her  that  he,  too,  had  lost  kindred  and  property. 
By  delicate  efforts  he  had  sought  to  show  the  futility  of 
clinging  to  a  dead  past,  and  a  cause  lost  beyond  hope,  but 
Mara  would  only  become  grave  and  silent  when  such  mat- 
ters were  touched  upon. 

Clancy  had  been  North  repeatedly  on  business,  and  had 
never  discovered  a  particle  of  hostility  toward  him  or  his 
section  in  the  men  with  whom  he  dealt  and  associated. 
They  invited  him  to  their  homes;  he  met  the  women  of 
their  families,  from  whom  he  often  received  rather  more 
than  courtesy,  for  his  fine  appearance  and  a  certain  courtli- 
ness of  manner,  inherited  from  his  aristocratic  father,  had 
won  a  thinly  veiled  admiration  of  which  he  had  been  agree- 
ably conscious.  Since  these  people  had  no  controversy  with 
him,  how  could  he  continue  to  cherish  enmity  and  prejudice 
against  them  ?  His  warm  Southern  nature  revolted  at  re- 
ceiving-hearty good- will  and  not  returning  it  in  kind. 
There  was  nothing  of  a  *'we-forgive-you"  in  the  bearing 
of  his  Northern  acquaintances,  nor  was  there  any  effusive- 
ness in  cordiality  with  an  evident  design  of  reassuring  him. 
He  was  made  to  feel  that  he  was  guilty  of  an  anachronism 
in  brooding  over  the  war,  that  it  had  been  forgotten  except 
as  history,  and  that  the  present  with  its  opportunities,  and 
the  future  with  its  promise,  were  the  themes  of  thought. 
The  elements  of  life,  energy,  hopefulness  with  which  he 
came  in  contact  had  appealed  to  him  powerfully,  for  they 
were  in  harmony  with  his  youth,  ambition,  yes,  and  his 
patriotism.  "The  South  can  never  grow  rich  and  strong 
by  sulking,"  he  had  often  assured  himself,  "and  since  the 
old  dream  is   impossible,   and   we  are   to  be  one  people, 


84  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

why   shouldn't  we  accept  the   fact  and   unite  in  mutual 
helpfulness?" 

Eeason,  ambition,  and  policy  prompted  him  to  the  di- 
vergence of  view  and  action  which  was  alienating  Mara. 
*' Imitation  of  her  example  and  spirit  would  be  political 
and  financial  suicide  on  our  part,"  he  broke  out.  *'I  love 
her;  and  if  she  loved  in  the  same  degree,  I  would  be  more 
to  her  than  bitter  memories.  She  would  help  me  achieve 
a  happy  future  for  us  both.  As  it  is,  I  am  so  pulled  in  dif- 
ferent ways  that  I'm  half  insane,"  and  with  contracted  brow 
he  sprang  up  and  paced  the  floor. 

But  he  could  not  hold  to  this  mood  long,  and  soon  his 
face  softened  into  an  expression  of  anxiety  and  commisera= 
tion.  Resuming  his  chair  his  thoughts  ran  on,  "She  isn't 
happy  either.  For  some  cause  I  reckon  she  suffers  more 
than  I  do.  She  looked  pale  to-day  when  I  met  her,  and 
her  face  was  full  of  anxiety  until  she  saw  me,  and  then  it 
masked  all  feeling.  She  has  worn  that  same  cloak  now  for 
three  winters.  Great  Heaven!  if  she  should  be  in  want,  and 
1  not  know  it!  Yet  what  could  I  do  if  she  were?  Why 
will  she  be  so  proud  and  obdurate  ?  I  believe  that  gaunt, 
white-haired  aunt  has  more  to  do  with  her  course  than  her 
own  heart.  Well,  1  can't  sit  here  and  think  about  it  any 
longer.  If  I  see  her  something  may  become  clearer,  and 
1  must  see  her  before  1  go  North  again." 

Mara  Wallingford's  troubles  and  anxieties  had  indeed 
been  culminating  of  late.  Almost  her  sole  inheritance  had 
been  sadness,  trouble  and  enmity.  Not  only  had  her  un- 
happy mother's  history  been  kept  fresh  in  her  memory 
by  her  great-aunt,  Mrs.  Hunter,  but  the  very  blood  that 
coursed  in  her  veins  and  the  soul  that  looked  out  from  her 
dark,  melancholy  eyes  had  received  from  that  mother  char- 
acteristics which  it  is  of  the  province  of  this  story  to  reveal. 
To  poor  Mary  Wallingford,  the  death  of  her  father  and  of 
her  husband  had  been  the  unspeakable  tragedy  and  wrong 
which  had  destroyed  her  life;  and  the  long  agony  of  the 
mother  had  deprived  her  offspring  of  the  natural  and  joyous 


MARA  35 

impulses  of  childhood  and  youth.  If  Mara  had  been  left  to 
the  care  of  a  judicious  guardian — one  who  had  sought  by  all 
wholesome  means  to  counteract  inherited  tendencies,  a  most 
cheerful  and  hopeful  life  would  have  been  developed,  but  in 
this  respect  the  girl  had  been  most  unfortunate.  The  mind 
grows  by  what  it  feeds  upon,  and  Mrs.  Hunter's  spirit  had 
become  so  imbittered  by  dwelling  upon  her  woes  and  losses 
that  she  was  incapable  of  thinking  or  speaking  of  much  else. 
She  had  never  been  a  woman  of  warm,  quick  sympathies. 
She  had  seen  little  of  the  world,  and,  in  a  measure,  was  in- 
capable of  seeing  it,  whatever  advantages  she  might  have 
had.  This  would  have  been  true  of  her,  no  matter  where 
her  lot  had  been  cast,  for  she  was  a  born  conservative. 
What  she  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  would  always  be 
true;  what  she  had  been  made  familiar  with  by  early  cus- 
tom would  always  be  right,  and  anything  different  would  be 
viewed  with  disapproval  or  intoleration.  Too  little  allow- 
ance is  often  made  for  characters  of  this  kind.  We  may  re- 
gret rigidity  and  narrowness  all  we  please,  but  there  should 
be  some  respect  for  downright  sincerity  and  the  inability  to 
see  both  sides  of  a  question. 

It  often  happens  that  if  natures  are  narrow  they  are  cor- 
respondingly intense;  and  this  was  true  of  Mrs.  Hunter. 
She  idolized  her  husband  dead,  more  perhaps  than  if  he 
had  been  living.  Her  brother  and  nephew  were  household 
martyrs,  and  little  Mara  had  been  taught  to  revere  their 
memories  as  a  devout  Catholic  pays  homage  to  a  patron 
saint.  Between  the  widow  and  all  that  savored  of  the 
;North,  the  author  of  her  woes,  there  was  a  great  gulf, 
and  the  changes  wrought  by  the  passing  years  had  made 
r^p  impression,  for  she  would  not  change.  She  simply  shut 
her  eyes  and  closed  her  ears  to  whatever  was  not  in  accord 
with  her  own  implacable  spirit.  She  grew  cold  toward 
.those  who  yielded  to  the  kindly  influences  of  peace  and 
the  healing  balm  of  time;  she  had  bitter  scorn  for  such  as 
were  led  by  their  interests  to  fraternize  with  the  North  and 
Northern  people.      In  her  indiscrimination  and  prejudice 


30  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

they  were  all  typified  by  the  unscrupulous  adventurers  who 
had  made  a  farce  of  goverDment  and  legally  robbed  the 
South  when  prostrate  and  bleeding  after  the  War.  She  and 
her  niece  had  been  taxed  out  of  their  home  to  sustain  a  rule 
they  loathed.  Kot  a  few  women  in  Boston,  in  like  circum- 
stances, would  be  equally  bitter  and  equally  incapable  of 
taking  the  broad  views  of  an  historian. 

The  influence  of  such  a  concentrated  mind  warped  almost 
to  the  point  of  monomania,  upon  a  child  like  Mara,  predis- 
posed from  birth  to  share  in  a  similar  spirit,  can  be  readily 
estimated.  Peace  and  time,  moreover,  had  not  brought  the 
ameliorating  tendencies  of  prosperity,  but  rather  a  continu- 
ous and  hopeless  pressure  of  poverty. 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  been  incapable  of  doing  more  than  save 
what  she  could  out  of  the  wreck  of  their  fortunes.     There 
were  no  near  relations,  and  those  remaining,  with  most  of 
their  friends  and  acquaintances  who  had  not  been  alienated, 
were  struggling  like  themselves  in  straitened  circumstances. 
Yet  out  of  this  poverty,  many  open,  generous  hands  would 
have  been  stretched  to  the  widow  and  her  ward  had  they 
permitted  their  want  to  be  known.     But  they  felt  that  they 
would  rather  starve  than  do  this,  for  they  belonged  to  that 
class  which  suffers  in  proud  silence.     Although  they  had 
practiced  an  economy  that  was  so  severe  as  to  be  detrimental 
to  both  health  and  character,  their  principal  had  melted 
away,  and  their  jewelry  and  plate,  with  the  exception  of 
heirlooms  that  could  not  be  sold  without  a  sense  of  sacri- 
lege, had  been  quietly  disposed  of.     The  end  of  their  re- 
sources was  near,  and  they  knew  not  what  to  do.     Mara  had 
tried  to  eke  out  their  means  by  fancy-work,  but  she  had  no 
great  aptitude  for  such  tasks,  and  her  education  was  too 
defective  and  old-fashioned  for  the  equipment  of  a  modern 
teacher.     She  was  well  read,  especially  in  the  classics,  yet 
during  the  troubled  years  of  her  brief  life  she  had  not  been 
given  the  opportunity  to  acquire  the  solid,  practical  knowl- 
edge which  would  enable  her  to  instruct  others.    The  exclu- 
siveness  and  seclusion,  so  congenial  to  her  aunt,  had  been 


MARA  37 

against  her,  and  now  reticence  and  a  disposition  to  shrink 
from  the  world  had  become  a  characteristic  of  her  own. 

She  felt,  however,  that  her  heart,  if  not  her  will,  was 
weak  toward  Owen  Clancy.  In  him  had  once  centred  the 
hope  of  her  life,  and  from  him  she  now  feared  a  wound  that 
could  never  heal. 

She  underrated  his  affection  as  he  did  hers.  He  felt  that 
she  should  throw  off  the  incubus  of  the  past  for  his  sake;  she 
believed  that  any  depth  of  love  on  his  part  should  render 
impossible  all  intercourse  with  the  North  beyond  what  was 
strictly  necessary  for  the  transaction  of  business.  In  order 
to  soften  her  prejudices,  he  had  told  her  of  his  social  experi- 
ences in  New  York,  and,  as  a  result,  had  seen  her  face  hard- 
ened against  him.  .  .  .  She  had  no  words  of  bitter  scorn 
such  as  her  aunt  had  indulged  in  when  learning  of  the  fact. 
She  had  only  thought  in  sorrow  that  since  he  was  "capable 
of  accepting  hospitality  from  the  people  who  had  murdered 
her  kindred  and  blighted  the  South,  there  was  an  impassa- 
ble gulf  between  them." 

Now,  however,  the  imperative  questions  of  bread  and 
shelter  were  uppermost.  She  believed  that  Clancy  could 
and  would  solve  these  questions  at  once  if  permitted,  and 
it  was  characteristic  of  her  pride  and  what  she  regarded  as 
her  loyalty,  that  she  never  once  allowed  herself  to  think 
of  this  alternative.  Yet  what  could  she  and  her  aunt  do  ? 
They  were  in  the  pathetic  position  of  gentlewomen  com- 
pelled to  face  the  world  with  unskilled  hands.  This  is  bad 
enough  at  best,  but  far  worse  when  hands  are  half  paralyzed 
by  pride  and  timidity  as  well  as  ignorance.  The  desperate 
truth,  however,  stared  them  in  the  face.  Do  something  they 
must,  and  that  speedily. 

They  were  contemplating  the  future  in  a  hopeless  sort  of 
dread  and  perplexity  on  the  evening  when  Aunt  Sheba  and 
young  Clancy's  thoughts  were  drawn  toward  them  in  such 
deep  solicitude.  This  fact  involves  no  mystery.  The  warm- 
hearted colored  woman  had  seen  and  heard  little  things 
which  suggested  the  truth,  and  the  •  sympathetic  lover  had 


88  THE  EARTH   TREMBLED 

seen  the  face  of  the  young  girl  when  she  was  off  her  guard. 
Its  expression  had  haunted  him,  and  impelled  him  to  see 
her  at  once,  although  she  had  chilled  his  hopes  of  late. 

When  compelled  to  leave  the  old  home,  Mrs.  Hunter 
had  taken  the  second  floor  of  a  small  brick  house  located 
on  a  side  street.  In  spite  of  herself  Mara's  heart  fluttered 
wildly  for  a  moment  when  the  woman  who  occupied  the 
first  story  brought  up  Clancy's  card. 

"You  can't  see  him  to-night,"  said  her  aunt,  frowning. 

Mara  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  firmly,  "Yes,  I 
will  see  him.  Please  ask  him  to  come  up."  When  they 
were  alone,  she  added  in  a  low  voice,  "I  shall  see  him  once 
more,  probably  for  the  last  time  socially.  We  cannot  know 
what  changes  are  in  store  for  us." 

"Well,  I  won't  see  him,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  frigidly -^ 
^.nd  she  left  the  room. 


PAST   A^D    FUTURE  d9 


CHAPTER   V 

PAST   AND   FUTURE 

UNDER  the  impulses  of  his  solicitude  and  affection 
Clancy  entered  quickly,  and  took  Mara's  hand  in 
such  a  strong,  warm  grasp  that  the  color  would 
come  into  her  pale  face.  In  spite  of  her  peculiarities  and 
seeming  coldness,  she  was  a  girl  who  could  easily  awaken  a 
passionate  love  in  a  warm,  generous- hearted  man  like  the 
one  who  looked  into  her  eyes  with  something  like  entreaty 
in  his  own.  She  had  a  beauty  peculiar  to  herself,  and  now 
a  strange  loveliness  which  touched  his  very  soul.  The 
quick  flush  upon  her  v;heeks  inspired  hope,  and  a  deep 
emotion,  which  she  could  not  wholly  suppress,  found  mo- 
mentary expression.  Even  in  that  brief  instant  she  was 
transfigured,  for  the  woman  within  her  was  revealed.  -As 
if  conscious  of  a  weakness  which  seemed  to  her  almost 
criminal,  her  face  became  rigid,  and  she  said  formally, 
''Please  be  seated,   Mr.    Clancy. " 

"You  must  not  speak  to  me  m  that  way  and  in  that 
tone,"  he  began  impetuously,  and  then  paused,  for  he  was 
chilled  by  her  cold,-  questionicg  gaze.  Her  will  was  so 
strong,  and  found  such  powerful  expression  in  her  dark, 
sad  eyes,  that  for  a  moment  he  was  dumb  and  embarrassed. 
Then  his  own  high  spirit  rallied,  and  a  purpose  grew  strong 
that  she  should  hear  him,  and  hear  the  truth  also.  His  gray 
eyes,  that  had  wavered  for  a  moment,  grew  steady  in  their 
encounter  with  hers. 

Seating  himself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  he  said 


40  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

quietly,  "You  think  I  have  no  right  to  speak  to  jou  in  such 
a  way. ' ' 

"I   fear  we   think   differently   on   many   subjects,    Mr. 

Clancy." 

"Admitting  that,  would  you  like  a  man  to  be  a  weak 
echo  of  yourself?" 

"A  man  should  not  be  weak  in  any  respect.  I  do  not 
think  it  necessary,  however,  to  raise  the  question  of  my 
likes  or  dislikes." 

"I  must  differ  with  you,  Mara,"  he  replied  gravely. 

"I  agree  with  you  now,  fully,  Mr.  Clancy.  We  differ. 
Had  we  not  better  change  the  subject  ?' ' 

"No,  not  unless  you  would  be  unfair.  I  am  at  a  disad- 
vantage. I  am  in  your  home.  You  are  a  lady,  and  there- 
fore can  compel  me  to  leave  unsaid  what  I  am  bent  on  say- 
ing.    We  have  been  friends,  have  we  not?" 

She  bowed  her  acquiescence. 

"Well,"  he  continued  a  little  bitterly,  "I  have  one  South- 
ern trait  left — frankness.  You  know  I  would  speak  in  a  dif- 
ferent character  if  permitted,  if  I  received  one  particle  of  en- 
couragement," Then,  with  a  sudden  flush,  he  said  firmly, 
"I  will  speak  as  I  feel.  I  only  pay  homage  m  telling  you 
what  you  must  already  know.  I  love  you,  and  would  make 
you  my  wife." 

Her  face  became  very  pale  as  she  averted  it,  and  replied 
briefly,  " You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Clancy." 

"Mara,  I  am  not  mistaken.  Will  you  be  fair  enough  to 
listen  to  me  ?  We  agree  that  we  differ.  Can  we  not  also 
agree  that  we  differ  conscientiously?  You  cannot  think  me 
false,  even  though  you  say  I  am  mistaken.  Hitherto  you 
have  opposed  to  me  a  dead  wall  of  silence.  Though  you 
will  not  listen  to  me  as  a  lover,  you  might  both  listen  and 
speak  to  me  as  a  friend.  That  word  would  be  hollow  in- 
deed if  estrangment  could  result  from  honest  differences  of 
opinion." 

"It  is  far  more  than  a  difference  of  opinion." 

"Let  the  difference  be  what  it  may,  Mara,"  he  answered 


PAST   AND   FUTURE  41 

gently,  resolving  not  to  be  baffled,  "if  you  are  so  sure  you 
are  right,  you  should  at  least  be  willing  to  accord  to  one 
whom  you  once  regarded  as  a  friend  the  privilege  of  plead- 
ing his  cause.  Truth  and  right  do  not  intrench  themselves 
in  repelling  silence.  That  is  the  refuge  of  prejudice.  If 
you  will  hear  my  side  of  the  question,  I  will  listen  with  the 
deepest  interest  to  yours,  and  believe  me  you  have  a  power- 
ful ally  in  my  heart." 

"Your  head  has  gained  such  ascendency  over  your  heart, 
Mr.  Clancy,  that  you  cannot  understand  me.  In  some  wo- 
men the  strongest  reasons  for  or  against  a  thing  proceed 
from  the  latter  organ." 

"Is  yours,  then,  so  cold  toward  me  ?"  he  asked  sadly. 
"It  is  not  cold  toward  the  memory  of  my  murdered  par- 
ents," she  replied  with  an  ominous  flash  in  her  eyes. 

Clancy  looked  at  her  in  momentary  surprise,  then  said 
firmly,  "My  father  eventually  died  from  injuries  received 
in  the  war,  but  he  was  not  murdered.  He  was  wounded  in 
fair  battle  in  which  he  struck  as  well  as  received  blows." 
Again  there  was  a  quick  flush  upon  her  pale  face,  but 
now  it  was  one  of  indignation  as  she  said  bitterly,  "Fair 
battle  1  So  you  call  it  fair  battle  when  men  are  overpow- 
ered in  defending  their  homes.  If  armed  robbers  broke 
into  your  house,  and  you  gave  blows  as  well  as  received 
them,  would  you  not  be  murdered  if  it  so  happened  that 
you  were  killed  ?  Why  should  we  speak  of  these  subjects 
further  ?' '     And  there  was  a  trace  of  scorn  in  her  tone. 

His  pride  was  touched,  and  he  was  all  the  more  deter- 
mined that  he  would  be  heard.  "I  can  give  you  good  rea- 
son why  we  should  speak  further,"  he  answered  resolutely 
yet  quietly.  "However  strong  your  feeling  may  be,  I  have 
too  much  respect  for  your  intelligence  and  too  much  confi- 
dence in  your  courage  to  believe  that  you  will  weakly  shrink 
from  hearing  one  who  is  as  conscientious  as  yourself.  I  can- 
not accept  your  illustration,  and  do  not  think  the  instance 
you  give  is  parallel.  In  the  differences  between  the  North 
and  the  South,  an  appeal  was  made  to  the  sword.    If  I  had 


42  -  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

been  old  enough  I  would  have  fought  at  my  father's  side. 
But  the  question  is  now  settled.  No  matter  how  we  feel 
about  it,  the  North  and  the  South  must  live  together,  and 
it  is  not  my  nature  to  live  in  hate.  Suppose  I  could — sup- 
pose it  were  possible  for  all  Southern  men  to  feel  as  you  do 
and  act  in  accordance  with  such  bitter  enmity,  what  would 
be  the  result  ?  It  would  be  suicide.  Our  land  would  be- 
come a  desert.  Capital  and  commerce  would  leave  our 
cities  because  there  would  be  no  security  among  a  people 
implacably  hostile.  Such  a  course  would  be  more  destruc- 
tive than  invading  armies.  My  business,  the  business  of 
the  city,  is  largely  with  the  North.  If  native  Southern 
men  tried  to  transact  it  in  a  cold,  relentless  spirit,  we 
should  lose  the  chance  to  live,  much  less  to  do  anything 
for  our  land.  We  have  suffered  too  much  from  this  course 
already,  and  have  allowed  strangers,  who  care  nothing  for 
us,  to  take  much  that  might  have  been  ours.  I  love  the 
South  too  well  to  advocate  a  course  which  would  prove  so 
fatal.  What  is  more,  I  cannot  think  it  would  be  right. 
The  North  of  your  imagination  does  not  exist.  I  cannot 
hate  people  who  have  no  hate  for  me,  but  on  the  contrary 
abound  in  honest,  kindly  feeling. ' ' 

She  had  listened  quietly  with  her  face  turned  from  him, 
and  now  met  his  eyes  with  an  inscrutable  expression  in  hers. 
"Have  I  not  listened?"  she  asked. 

"But  you  have  not  answered,"  he  urged,  "you  have  not 
even  tried  to  show  me  wherein  I  am  wrong." 

The  eyes  whose  sombre  blackness  had  been  like  a  veil 
now  flamed  with  the  anger  she  had  long  repressed.  "How 
little  you  understand  me,"  she  said  passionately,  "when 
you  think  I  can  argue  questions  like  these.  You  are  vir- 
tually asking  what  to  me  is  sacrilege.  I  have  listened  to 
you  patiently,  at  what  cost  to  my  feelings  you  are  inca- 
pable of  knowing.  Do  you  think  that  I  can  forget  that  my 
grandfather  was  mangled  to  death,  and  that  his  last  words 
were,  'I  was  only  trying  to  defend  my  home'  ?  Do  you 
think  I  can  forget  that  my  father  was  trampled  into  the 


PAST   AND    FUTURE  43 

very  earth  by  your  Northern  friends  with  whom  you  must 
fraternize  as  well  as  trade  ?  I  will  not  speak  of  my  mar- 
tyred mother.  Her  name  and  agony  are  too  sacred  to  be 
named  in  a  political  argument,"  and  she  uttered  these  last 
words  with  intense  bitterness.  Then  rising  to  end  the  inter- 
view, she  continued  coldly  in  biting  sacrcasm,  ''Mr.  Clancy, 
I  have  no  relations  with  the  North.  I  do  not  deal  in  cotton, 
and  none  of  its  fibre  has  found  its  way  into  my  nature." 

At  these  words  he  flushed  hotly,  sprang  up,  but  by  an 
evident  and  powerful  effort  controlled  himself,  and  sat  down 
again. 

"How  could  you  even  imagine,"  she  added,  ''that  words, 
arguments,  political  and  financial  considerations  would 
tempt  me  to  be  disloyal  to  the  memory  of  my  dead 
kindred?" 

"You  are  disloyal  to  them,"  he  said  firmly. 

"What!" 

"Mara,  I  am  indeed  proving  myself  a  friend  because  I  am 
such  and  more,  and  because  you  so  greatly  need  a  friend. 
Your  kindred  had  hearts  in  their  breasts.  Would  they 
doom  you  to  the  life  upon  which  you  are  entering  ?  Can 
you  not  see  that  you  are  passing  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  shadow  of  the  past  ?  What  good  can  it  do  them  ? 
Could  they  speak  would  they  say,  'We  wish  our  sorrows 
to  blight  your  life'?  You  are  not  happy,  you  cannot  be 
happy.  It  is  contrary  to  the  law  of  God,  it  is  impossible  to 
human  nature,  that  happiness  and  bitter,  unrelenting  enmity 
should  exist  in  the  same  heart.  You  are  not  only  unhappy, 
but  you  are  in  deep  trouble  of  some  kind.  I  saw  that  from 
your  face  to-day  before  you  saw  me  and  could  mask  from 
a  friend  its  expression  of  deep  anxiety.  You  shall  hear  the 
truth  from  me  which  I  fear  you  hear  from  no  other,  and 
your  harsh  words  shall  not  deter  me  from  my  resolute  pur- 
pose to  be  kind,  to  rescue  you  virtually  from  a  condition  of 
mind  that  is  so  morbid,  so  unhealthful,  that  it  will  blight 
your  life.  I  cannot  so  wrong  your  father  and  mother  as 
even  to  imagine  that  it  could   be  their  wish  to  see  your 


44  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

beautiful  youDg  life  grow  more  and  more  shadowed,  to  see 
you  struggling  under  burdens  which  strong,  loving  hands 
would  lift  from  yon.  Can  you  believe  that  they,  happy  in 
heaven,  can  wish  you  no  happiness  on  earth?" 

There  was  a  grave,  convincing  earnestness  in  his  tone, 
and  a  truth  in  his  words  hard  to  resist.  What  she  consid- 
ered loyalty  to  her  kindred  had  been  like  her  religion,  and 
he  had  charged  her  with  disloyalty,  yes,  and  while  he  spoke 
the  thought  would  assert  itself  that  her  course  might  be  a 
wretched  mistake.  Although  intrenched  in  prejudice,  and 
fortified  against  his  words  by  the  thought  and  feeling  of  her 
life,  she  had  been  made  to  doubt  her  position  and  feel  that 
she  might  be  a  self-elected  martyr.  The  assertion  that  she 
was  doing  what  would  be  contrary  to  the  wishes  of  her  dead 
kindred  pierced  the  very  citadel  of  her  opposition,  and 
tended  to  remove  the  one  belief  which  had  been  the  sus- 
taining rock  beneath  her  feet.  She  knew  she  had  been 
severe  with  him,  and  she  was  touched  by  his  forbearance, 
his  resolute  purpose  to  befriend  her.  She  remembered  her 
poverty,  the  almost  desperate  extremity  in  which  she  was, 
and  her  heart  upbraided  her  for  refusing  the  hand  held  out 
so  loyally  and  persistently  to  her  help.  She  became  con- 
fused, torn,  and  overwhelmed  by  conflicting  emotions;  her 
lip  quivered,'  and,  bowing  her  head  in  her  hands,  she  sobbed, 
"You  are  breaking  my  heart." 

In  an  instant  he  was  on  one  knee  at  her  side.  "Mara," 
he  began  gently,  "if  1  wound  it  is  only  that  1  may  heal. 
Truly  no  girl  in  this  city  needs  a  friend  as  you  do.  For 
some  reason  I  feel  this  to  be  true  in  m}^  very  soul.  Who 
in  God's  universe  would  forbid  you  a  loyal  friend?"  and 
he  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

"I  forbid  you  to  be  her  friend,"  said  a  stern  voice. 

Springing  up,  Clancy  encountered  the  gaze  of  a  gaunt, 
white-haired  woman,  with  implacable  enmity  stamped  upon 
her  thin  visage.  The  young  man's  eyes  darkened  as  they 
steadily  met  those  of  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  it  was  evident  that 
the  forbearance  he  had  manifested  toward  the  girl  he  loved 


PAST   AND    FUTURE  45 

would  not  be  extended  to  her  guardian.     Still  he  controlled 
himself,  and  waited  till  she  should  speak  again. 

''Mr.  Clancy,"  she  resumed  after  a  moment,  "Miss  Wal- 
lingford  is  my  ward ;  I  received  her  from  her  dying  mother, 
and  so  have  rights  which  you  must  respect.  I  forbid  you 
seeing  her  or  speaking  to  her  again. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Hunter,"  he  replied,  "permit  me  to  tell  you  with 
the  utmost  courtesy  that  I  shall  not  obey  you.  Only  Mara 
herself  can  forbid  me  from  seeing  her  or  speaking  to 
her." 

"What  right  have  you,  sir — " 

"The  best  of  rights,  Mrs.  Hunter,  I  love  the  girl;  you 
do  not.  As  remorselessly  as  a  graven  image  you  would 
sacrifice  her  on  the  altar  of  your  hate." 

"Mr.  Clancy,  you  must  not  speak  to  my  aunt  in  that 
way.     She  has  been  devoted  to  me  from  my  infancy." 

"On  the  contrary,  she  has  devoted  you  from  infancy  to 
sadness,  gloom,  and  bitter  memories.  She  is  developing 
within  you  the  very  qualities  most  foreign  to  a  woman's 
heart.  Instead  of  teaching  you  to  enshrine  the  memory  of 
your  kindred  in  tender,  loving  remembrance,  she  is  forging 
that  memory  into  a  chain  to  restrain  you  from  all  that  is 
natural  to  your  years.  She  is  teaching  you  to  wreck  your 
life  in  fruitless  opposition  to  the  healing  influences  that 
have  followed  peace.  Madam,  answer  me — the  question  is 
plain  and  fair — what  can  you  hope  to  accomplish  by  your 
enmity  to  me  and  to  the  principles  of  hope  and  progress 
which,  in  this  instance,  I  represent,  but  the  blighting  of  this 
girl  whom  1  love?" 

"You  are  insolent,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Hunter,  trembling 
with  rage. 

"No,  madam,  I  am  honest,  and  be  the  result  to  me  what 
it  may,  you  shall  both  hear  the  truth  to-night." 

"This  is  our  home,"  was  the  harsh  response,  "and  you 
are  not  a  gentleman  if  you  do  not  leave  it  instantly." 

"I  shall  certainly  do  so.  Mara,  am  1  to  see  you  and 
speak  to  you  no  more?" 


46  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

She  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  again  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands. 

He  waited  a  moment,  but  she  gave  no  sign.  Then  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her  he  sadl}^  and  slowly  left  the  apartment. 

At  last  she  sprang  up  with  the  faint  cry,  ''Owen,"  but 
her  aunt  stood  between  her  and  the  door,  and  he  was  gone. 


''PAHNASHIP"  47 


CHAPTER  yi 

"PAHNASHIP" 

WHEN  Mara  realized  that  her  lover  had  indeed  gone, 
that  in  fact  he  had  been  driven  forth,  and  that 
she  had  said  not  one  word  to  pave  the  way  for 
a  future  meeting,  a  sense  of  desolation  she  had  never  known 
before  overwhelmed  her.  Hitherto  she  had  been  sustained 
by  an  unfaltering  belief  that  no  other  course  than  the  one 
which  her  aunt  had  inculcated  was  possible;  that,  cost  what 
it  might,  and  end  as  it  might,  it  was  her  heritage.  All  now 
was  confused  and  in  doubt.  She  had  heard  her  lofty,  self- 
sacrificing  purpose  virtually  characterized  as  vain  and 
wrong.  She  had  idolized  the  memory  of  her  father  and 
mother,  and  yet  had  been  told  that  her  course  was  the  very 
one  of  which  they  would  not  approve.  The  worst  of  it  all 
was  that  it  now  seemed  true,  for  she  could  not  believe  that 
they  would  wish  her  to  be  so  utterly  unhappy.  In  spite  of 
her  unworldliness  and  lack  of  practical  training,  the  strong 
common-sense  of  Clancy's  question  would  recur,  "What 
good  will  it  do  ?"  She  was  not  sacrificing  her  heart  to  sus- 
tain or  further  any  cause,  and  her  heart  now  cried  out 
against  the  wrong  it  was  receiving.  These  miserable 
thoughts  rushed  through  her  mind  and  pressed  so  heavily 
upon  all  hope  that  she  leaned  her  arms  upon  the  table,  and, 
burying  her  face,  sobbed  aloud. 

"Mara,"  said  her  aunt,  severely,  "I  did  not  think  you 
could  be  so  weak." 

Until  the  storm  of  passionate  grief  passed,  the  young 
girl  gave  no  heed  to  Mrs.  Hunter's  reproaches  or  expostu- 


48  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

lations.  At  last  she  became  quiet,  as  much  from  exhaus- 
tion as  from  self-control,  and  said  wearily,  "Y'ou  need 
worry  no  further  about  Mr.  Clancy.  He  will  not  come 
again.  If  he  has  a  spark  of  pride  or  manhood  left,  he  will 
never  look  at  me  again,"  and  a  quick,  heart-broken  sob 
would  rise  at  the  thought. 

"I  should  hope  you  would  not  look  at  him  again  after 
his  insolence  to  me. ' ' 

Mara  did  not  reply.  For  the  first  time  her  confidence  in 
her  aunt  had  been  shaken,  for  she  could  not  but  feel  that 
Mrs.  Hunter,  in  her  judgment  of  Clancy,  saw  but  one  side  of 
the  question.  She  did  not  approve  of  his  stern  arraignment 
of  her  aunt,  but  she  at  least  remembered  his  great  provoca- 
tion, and  that  he  had  been  impelled  to  his  harsh  words  by 
loyalty  to  her. 

At  last  she  said,  "Aunty,  I'm  too  worn  out  to  think  or 
speak  any  more  to-night.  There  is  a  limit  to  endurance, 
and  I've  reached  it. " 

'* That's  just  where  the  trouble  is,"  Mrs.  Hunter  tried  to 
say  reassuringly.  ''In  the  morning  you  will  be  your  own 
true,  brave  self-again. " 

''What's  the  use  of  being  brave;  what  can  I  be  brave 
for?"  thought  Mara  in  the  solitude  of  her  room. 

Although  her  sleep  was  brief  and  troubled,  she  had  time 
to  grow  calm  and  collect  her  thoughts.  While  she  would 
not  admit  it  to  herself,  Clancy's  repeated  assertions  of  his 
love  had  a  subtle  and  sustaining  power.  She  could  see  no 
light  in  the  future,  but  her  woman's  heart  would  revert  to 
this  truth  as  to  a  secret  treasure. 

In  the  morning  after  sitting  for  a  time  almost  in  silence 
over  their  meagre  breakfast,  her  aunt  began:  "Mara,  I  wish 
you  to  realize  the  truth  in  regard  to  Mr.  Clancy.  It  is  one 
of  those  things  which  must  be  nipped  in  the  bud.  There 
is  only  one  ending  to  his  path,  and  that  is  full  acceptance 
of  Northern  rule  and  Northern  people.  What  is  more,  after 
his  words  to  me,  I  will  never  abide  under  the  same  roof 
with  him  again." 


**PAENASHIP"  49 

"Aunty,"  said  Mara  sadly,  "we  have  much  else  to  think 
about  besides  Mr.  Clancy.  How  are  we  going  to  keep  a  roof 
over  our  own  heads  ?" 

Compelled  to  face  their  dire  need,  Mrs.  Hunter  broke 
out  into  bitter  invective  against  those  whom  she  regarded 
as  the  cause  of  their  poverty. 

"Aunty, "  protested  Mara,  almost  irritably,  for  her  nerves 
were  sadly  worn,  "what  good  can  such  words  do  ?  We  must 
live,  I  suppose,  and  you  must  advise  me." 

"Mara,  I  am  almost  tempted  to  believe  that  you  regret — " 

"Aunty,  you  must  fix  your  mind  on  the  only  question  to 
be  considered.  What  are  we  to  do  ?  You  know  our  money 
is  almost  gone. " 

Mrs.  Hunter's  only  response  was  to  stare  blankly  at  her 
niece.  She  could  economize  and  be  content  with  very  little 
as  long  as  her  habitual  trains  of  thought  were  not  inter- 
rupted and  she  could  maintain  her  proud  seclusion.  Accus- 
tomed to  remote  plantation  life,  she  knew  little  of  the  ways 
of  the  modern  world,  and  much  less  of  the  methods  by 
which  a  woman  could  obtain  a  livelihood  from  it.  To  the 
very  degree  that  she  had  lived  in  the  memories  and  tradi- 
tions of  the  past,  she  had  unfitted  herself  to  understand  the 
conditions  of  present  life  or  to  cope  with  its  requirements. 
Now  she  was  practically  helpless.  "We  can't  go  and  reveal 
our  situation  to  our  friends,"  she  began  hesitatingly. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mara,  "for  most  of  them  have  all 
they  can  do  to  sustain  themselves,  and  I  would  rather 
starve  than  live  on  the  charity  of  those  on  whom  we  have 
no  claim. ' ' 

"We  might  take  less  expensive  rooms." 

"What  good  would  that  do.  Aunty?  If  we  can't  earn 
anything,  five  dollars  will  be  as  hard  to  raise  as  ten. ' ' 

"Oh,  to  think  that  people  of  the  very  best  blood  in  the 
State,  who  once  had  scores  of  slaves  to  work  for  them, 
should  be  so  wronged,  robbed  and  reduced!" 

Mara  heaved  a  long,  weary  sigh,  and  Clancy's  words 

would  repeat  themselves  again  and  again.     She  saw  how 

C— Rob— XV 


50  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Utterly  incapable  her  aunt  was  to  render  any  assistance  in 
their  desperate  straits.  Even  the  stress  of  their  present 
emergency  could  not  prevent  her  mind  from  vainly  revert- 
ing to  a  past  that  was  gone  forever.  Again  her  confidence 
was  more  severely  shaken  as  she  was  compelled  to  doubt 
the  wisdom  of  their  habits  of  seclusion  and  reticence,  of 
living  on  from  year  to  year  engrossed  by  memories,  instead 
of  adapting  themselves  to  a  new  order  of  things  which  they 
were  powerless  to  prevent.  "Truly,"  she  thought,  "my 
father  and  mother  never  could  have  wished  me  to  be  in 
this  situation  out  of  love  for  them.  It  is  true  I  could  never 
go  to  the  length  that  he  does  without  great  hypocrisy,  and 
I  do  not  see  the  need  of  it.  I  can  never  forget  the  immense 
wrong  done  to  me  and  mine,  but  Aunty  should  have  taught 
me  something  more  than  indignation  and  hostility,  however 
just  the  causes  for  them  may  be." 

While  such  was  the  tenor  of  her  thoughts,  she  only  said 
a  little  bitterly:  "Oh,  that  I  knew  how  to  do  something  I 
My  old  nurse,  Aun'  Sheba,  is  better  off  than  we  are." 

"She  belongs  to  us  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  almost 
fiercely. 

"You  could  never  make  her  or  any  one  else  think  so," 
was  the  weary  reply.  "Well,  now  that  1  have  thought  of 
her,  I  believe  I  could  advise  with  her  better  than  any  one 
else." 

"Advise  with  a  slave?    Oh,  Mara!—" 

"Whom  shall  I  advise  with  then?"  And  there  was  a 
sharp  ring  in  the  girl's  tone. 

"Oh,  any  one,  so  that  it  be  not  Mr.  Clancy,"  replied  her 
aunt  irritably.  "Were  it  not  that  you  so  needed  a  protector, 
1  could  wish  that  I  were  dead." 

"Aunt,"  said  Mara,  gently  yet  firmly,  "we  must  give 
up  this  hopeless,  bitter  kind  of  talk.  I,  at  least,  must  do 
something  to  earn  honest  bread,  and  I  am  too  depressed  and 
sad  at  heart  to  carry  any  useless  burdens.  Mr.  Clancy  said 
much  that  was  wrong  last  night,  and  there  are  matters  about 
which  he  and  I  can  never  agree,  but  surely  he  was  right  in 


saying  that  my  father  and  mother  would  not  wish  to  see  me 
crushed  body  and  soul.  If  1  am  to  live,  I  must  find  a  way 
to  live  and  yet  keep  my  self-respect.  I  suppose  the  nat- 
ural way  would  be  to  go  to  those  who  knew  my  father  and 
grandfather;  but  they  would  ask  me  what  1  could  do. 
What  could  I  tell  them  ?  It  would  seem  almost  like  ask- 
ing charity." 

"Of  course  it  would,"  assented  her  aunt. 

Then  silence  fell  between  them. 

Before  Mara  could  finish  her  morning  duties  and  prepare 
for  the  street,  a  heavy  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs,  then  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Opening  it,  the  young  girl  saw  the  very 
object  of  her  thoughts,  for  Aun'  Sheba's  ample  form  and 
her  great  basket  filled  all  the  space. 

''Oh,  Aun'  Sheba,"  cried  the  girl,  a  gleam  of  hope  light- 
ing up  her  eyes,  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  was  jast  start- 
ing for  your  cabin." 

"Bress  your  heart,  honey,  Aun'  Sheba' 11  alius  be  proud 
to  habyou  come.  My  spec's,  Missus,"  and  she  dropped  her 
basket  and  a  courtesy  before  Mrs.  Hunter. 

"Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Mara,  giving  the  kindly  vender  a 
chair,  "you  are  so  much  better  off  than  we  are.  I  was  say- 
ing just  that  to  aunty  this  morning." 

"Why,  honey,  I'se  only  a  po'  culled  body,  and  you'se  a 
beauty  like  you  moder,  bress  her  po'  deah  heart." 

' '  Yes,  Aun'  Sheba,  you  were  a  blessing  to  her, ' '  said  Mara 
with  moist  eyes.  "How  you  watched  over  her  and  helped 
to  take  care  of  me !  Perhaps  you  can  help  take  care  of  me 
again.  For  some  reason,  I  can  speak  to  you  and  tell  you 
our  troubles  easier  than  to  any  one  else  in  the  world." 

"Dat's  right,  honey  lam',  dat's  right.  Who  else  you  tell 
yoLir  troubles  to  but  Aun'  Sheba?  Didn't  I  comfort  you 
on  dis  bery  bres  time  an'  time  agin  when  you  was  a  little 
mite?  Now  you'se  bigger  and  hab  bigger  troubles,  I'se 
bigger  too,"  and  Aunt  Sheba  shook  with  laughter  like  a 
great  form  of  jelly  as  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  sympathy. 

"Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Mara  in  a  voice  full  of  unconscious 


52  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

pathos,  "I  don't  know  what  to  do,  yet  1  must  do  something. 
It  seems  to  me  that  1  could  be  almost  happy  if  1  were  as 
sure  of  earning  my  bread  as  you  are. 

"Now,  doggone  dat  ar  lazy  husban'  o'  mine.  But  he 
got  his  'serts  an'll  git  mo'  ob  dem  eff  he  ain't  keerful.  I 
jes'  felt  it  in  my  bones  las'  night  how  'twas  wid  you,  an 
I  'lowed  how  I'd  see  you  dis  mawnin',  an'  den  he  began 
to  go  on  as  ef  you  was  nothin'  but  white  folks  stid  ob  my 
deah  honey  lam'  dat  I  nussed  till  you  was  like  my  own 
chile.     But  he  won'  do  so  no  mo'." 

"Oh,  Aun'  Sheba,  believe  me,  I  don't  wish  to  interfere 
with  any  of  your  duties  to  him,"  began  Mara  earnestly. 

"Duty  to  him,"  exclaimed  the  colored  woman  with  a 
snort  of  indignation.  "He  mout  tink  a  little  'bout  his  duty 
to  me.  Doan  you  trubble  'bout  him,  for  he's  boun'  to  git 
mo'  dan  his  shar  anyhow.  Now  I  know  de  good  Lawd  put 
it  in  my  min'  to  come  heah  dis  mawnin'  case  you  was  on 
my  min'  las'  night.  You  needn't  tink  you  kin  go  hungry 
while  Aun'  Sheba  hab  a  crus'." 

"I  know  what  a  big  heart  you've  got,  but  that  won't 
do,  Aun'  Sheba.  Can  you  think  I  would  live  idly  on  your 
hard-earned  money  ?" 

"Well,  'tis  my  money,  an'  I  make  mo  dan  you  tink,  an' 
a  heap  mo'  dan  I  let  Unc.  know  about.  He'd  be  fer  settin' 
up  his  kerrige  ef  he  knew,"  and  she  again  laughed  in  hearty 
self-complacency.  "Why,  honey,  I  can  'sport  you  an'  Missus 
widout  pinchin',  an'  who  gwine  to  know  'bout  it?" 

"I'd  know  about  it,"  said  Mara,  rising  and  putting  her 
hand  caressingly  on  the  woman's  shoulder,  "yet  I  feel  your 
kindness  in  the  very  depths  of  my  heart.  Come,  I  have  a 
thought.     Let  me  see  what's  in  your  basket." 

"Ony  cakes  dis  mawnin',  honey.     Help  you's  sef." 

"Oh,  how  delicious  they  are,"  said  Mara  eating  one,  and 
thoughtfully  regarding  her  sable  friend.  "You  beat  me 
making  cakes,  Aun'  Sheba,  and  I  thought  I  was  good 
at  it." 

"So  you  am,  Missy,  so  you  am,  fer  I  taught  you  mysef." 


''PAHNASHIP''  53 

"  Aun'  Sheba,  suppose  we  go  into  partnership." 
"Pahnaship!"  ejaculated  Aun'  Sheba  in  bewilderment. 
*'0h,  Mara!"  Mrs.  Hunter  expostulated  indignantly. 
"Well,  1  suppose  it  would  be  a  very  one-sided  affair," 
admitted  the  girl,  blushing  in  a  sort  of  honest  shame.    ' '  You 
are  doing  well  without  any  help  from  me,  and  don't  need 
any.     I'm  very  much  like  a  man  who  wants  to  share  in  a 
good  business  which  has  already  been  built  up,  but  I  don't 
know  how  to  do  anything  else,  and  could  at  least  learn  bet- 
ter every  day,  and— and— I  thought— I  must  do  something 

I  thought,  perhaps,  if  I  made  the  cakes  and  some  other 

things,  and  you  sold  them,  Aun'  Sheba,  you  wouldn't  have 
to  work  so  hard,  and— well,  there  might  be  enough  profit 
for  us  both." 

"Now  de  Lawd.bress  you  heart,  honey,  dar  ain't  no 
need  ob  you  blisterin'  you'se  pretty  face  ober  a  fiah,  bakin' 
cakes  an'  sich.     I  kin — " 

"No,  no,  Aun'  Sheba,  you  can't,  for  I  won't  let  you." 
"Mara,"  protested  Mrs.  Hunter,  severely,  ''do  you  real- 
ize what  you  are  saying  ?     Suppose  it  became  known  that 
you  were  in— in— ' '   but  the  lady  could  not  bring  herself  to 
complete  the  humiliating  sentence. 

"Yis,  honey.  Missus  am  right.  Deidee!  Sech  quality 
as  you  in  pahnaship  wid  ole  Aun'  Sheba!"  and  she  laughed 
at  the  preposterous  relationship. 

"Perhaps  it  needn't  be  known,"  said  Mara,  daunted  for 
a  moment.  Then  the  necessities  in  the  case  drove  her  for- 
ward, and,  remembering  that  her  aunt  was  unable  to  suggest 
or  even  contemplate  anything  practicable,  she  said  reso- 
lutely, "Let  it  be  known.  Others  of  our  social  rank  are 
supporting  themselves,  and  I'm  too  proud  to  be  ashamed 
to  do  it  myself  even  in  this  humble  way.  W  hat  troubles 
me  most  is  that  I'm  making  such  a  one-sided  offer  to  Aun' 
Sheba.  She  don't  need  my  help  at  all,  and  I  need  hers  so 
much." 

"Now  see  heah,  honey,  is  your  heart  set  on  dis  ting?" 
"Yes,  it  is,"  replied  Mara,  earnestly.     "My  heart  was 


54  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

like  lead  till  you  came,  and  it  would  be  almost  as  light  as 
one  of  these  cakes  if  I  knew  I  could  surely  earn  my  living. 
Oh,  Aun'  Sheba,  you've  had  troubles,  and  you  know  what 
sore  troubles  my  poor  mother  had,  but  neither  you  nor  she 
ever  knew  the  fear,  the  sickening  dread  which  comes  over 
one  when  you  don't  know  where  your  bread  is  to  come  from 
or  how  you  are  to  keep  a  roof  over  your  head.  Aunty,  do 
listen  to  reason.  Making  cake  and  other  things  for  Aun' 
Sheba  to  sell  would  not  be  half  so  humiliating  as  going  to 
people  of  my  own  station  and  revealing  my  ignorance,  or 
trying  to  do  what  I  don't  know  how  to  do,  knowing  all  the 
time  that  I  was  only  tolerated.  My  plan  leaves  me  in  se- 
clusion, and  if  any  one  thinks  less  of  me  they  can  leave  me 
alone.  I  don't  want  to  make  my  way  among  strangers;  I 
don't  feel  that  I  can.  This  plan  enables  us  to  stay  together, 
Aunty,  and  you  must  know  now  that  we  can't  drift  any 
longer." 

Weile  Mara  was  speaking  Aun'  Sheba's  thrifty  thoughts 
had  been  busy.  Her  native  shrewdness  gave  her  a  keen  in- 
sight into  Mrs.  Hunter's  character,  and  she  knew  that  the 
widow's  mind  was  so  warped  that  she  was  practically  as 
helpless  as  a  child.  While,  in  her  generous  love  for  Mara 
and  from  a  certain  loyalty  to  her  old  master's  family,  she 
was  willing  temporarily  to  assume  what  would  be  a  very 
heavy  burden,  she  was  inwardly  glad,  as  she  grew  accus- 
tomed to  the  idea,  that  Mara  was  willing  to  do  her  share. 
Indeed  it  would  be  a  great  relief  if  her  basket  could  be 
filled  for  her,  and  she  said,  heartily,  "Takes  some  time, 
honey,  you  know,  fer  an  idee  to  git  into  my  tick  head,  but 
when  it  gits  dar  it  stick.  Now  you'se  sensible,  an'  Missus' 11 
see  it  soon.  You'se  on  de  right  track.  Ob  cose,  I'd  be 
proud  ob  pahnaship,  an'  it'll  be  a  great  eas'n  up  to  me. 
Makes  a  mighty  long  day,  Missy,  to  git  up  in  de  mawnin' 
an  '  do  my  bakin'  an'  den  tromp,  tromp,  tromp.  I  could 
j)ut  in  an  hour  or  two  extra  sleep,  an'  dat  counts  in  a  woman 
ob  my  age  an'  heft.  But,  law  sakes !  look  at  dat  clock  dar. 
I  mus'  be  gitten  along.     Set  you  deah  little  heart  at  res', 


*'PAHNASHIP"  55 

honey.  I'se  comin'  back  dis  ebenin',  an'  we'se  start  in 
kin'  ob  easy  like  so  you  hab  a  chance  to  larn  and  not  get 
'scoaraged. " 

"1  can't  approve  of  this  plan  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter, 
loftily,  "I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

"Now,  now.  Missus,  you  do  jes'  dat — wash  you  hans  ob 
it,  but  don'  you  'fere  wid  Missy,  kase  it'll  set  her  heart  at 
res'  and  keep  a  home  fer  you  bof.  We's  gwine  to  make 
a  pile,  honey,  an'  den  de  roses  come  back  in  you  cheeks," 
and  nodding  encouragingly,  she  departed,  leaving  more 
hope  and  cheer  behind  her  than  Mara  had  known  for  many 
a  month. 

To  escape  the  complaining  of  her  aunt,  Mara  shut  herself 
in  her  room  and  thought  long  and  deeply.  The  conclusion 
was,  "The  gulf  between  us  has  grown  wider  and  deeper. 
When  Mr.  Clancy  learns  how  I  have  sought  independence 
without  his  aid — "  but  she  only  finished  the  sentence  by  a 
sad,  bitter  smile. 


56  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTEK  VII 

mara's    purpose 

"IV  I  ^^^^  ^^^  ^®^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  "^y  ^^^^  days,"  soliio- 
\j  quized  Ann'  Sheba  as  she  saw  the  bottom  of  her 
A  ^  basket  early  in  the  day.  "All  my  cns'mers  kin' 
o'  smilin'  like  de  sunshine.  Only  Marse  Clancy  grumpy. 
He  go  by  me  like  a  brack  cloud.  I'se  got  a  big  grudge 
against  dat  ar  young  man.  He  use  to  be  bery  sweet  on 
Missy.  He  mus'  be  taken  wid  some  Norvern  gal,  and  dat's 
'nufi  fer  me.  Ef  he  lebe  my  honey  lam'  now  she  so  po', 
dar's  a  bad  streak  in  his  blood  and  he  don'  'long  to  us  any 
mo'.  I  wouldn't  be  s' prised  ef  dey  hadn't  had  a  squar  meal 
fer  a  fortnight.  I  can  make  blebe  dat  I  wants  to  take  my 
dinner  'long  o'  dem  to  sabe  time,  an'  den  dey' 11  hab  a  din- 
ner wat'll  make  Missy  real  peart  'fore  she  gin  to  work," 
and  full  of  her  kindly  intentions  she  bought  a  juicy  steak, 
some  vegetables,  a  quantity  of  the  finest  flour,  sugar,  coffee, 
and  some  spices. 

Mara  had  slipped  out  and  invested  the  greater  part  of  her 
diminished  hoard  in  the  materials  essential  to  her  new  un- 
dertaking. Not  the  least  among  them,  as  she  regarded  it, 
was  an  account  book.  When,  therefore,  Aun'  Sheba  bus- 
tled in  between  one  and  two  o'clock,  she  found  some  bxilky 
bundles  on  the  kitchen  table  over  which  Mrs.  Hunter  had 
already  groaned  aloud. 

''Law  sakes,  honey,  what  all  dese?"  the  colored  aunty 
asked. 

"They  are  my  start  in  trade,"  replied  Mara,  smiling. 


MARA'S    PURPOSE 


57 


"Den  you's  gwine  to  hab  a  mighty  big  start,  fer  I  got 
lots  o'  tings  in  dis  basket." 

"Why,  Aun'  Shebal  Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  let 
you  furnish  the  materials?" 

"Ef  you  furnish  de  makin'  up  ob  de  'terials  what  mo' 
you  oughter  do,  Td  like  ter  know  ?" 

"Aun'  Sheba,  1  could  cheat  you  out  af  your  two  black 

eyes." 

"Dey  see  mo'  dan  you  tink.  Missy,"  she  replied,  nodding 

sagaciously. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  they  do,  but  my  eyes  must  look  after 
your  interests  as  well  as  my  own.  1  am  going  to  be  an  hon- 
est partner.     Do  you  see  this  book  ?' ' 

"What  dat  ar  got  to  do  wid  de  pahnaship  ?" 

"You  will  see.  It  will  prevent  you  from  ever  losing 
a  penny  that  belongs  to  you." 

"Penny,    indeed!      As    if    I'se    gwine    to    stand    on    a 

penny !" 

"Well,  I  am.  Little  as  I  know  about  business,  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  more  satisfactory  if  careful  accounts  are  kept, 
and  you  must  promise  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth  about 
things.  That's  the  way  partners  do,  you  know,  and  every- 
thing is  put  down  in  black  and  white." 

"Oh,  go  'long  wid  you,  honey,  an'  hab  you  own  way. 
All  in  my  pahnaship  go  down  in  black,  I  s'pose,  an'  you'se 
in  white.  How  funny  it  all  ami"  and  the  old  woman  sat 
back  in  her  chair  and  laughed  in  her  joyous  content. 

"It  is  all  a  very  humiliating  farce  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter,  looking  severely  at  the  former  property. 

"Yas'm,"  said  Aun'  Sheba,  suddenly  becoming  stolid 

as  a  graven  image. 

"Aunty,"  said  Mara  firmly  but  gently,  ''the  time  has 
come  when  I  must  act,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own. 
Nothing  will  prevent  me  from  carrying  out  this  plan,  ex- 
cept its  failure  to  provide  for  Aun'   Sheba  as  well  as  for 

ourselves." 

"Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  it,  and,  if  your  course  be- 


58  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

comes  generally  known,  I  shall  have  it  understood  that  you 
acted  without  my  approval."  And  she  rose  and  left  the 
kitchen  with  great  dignity. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  her,  Aun'  Sheba  again  shook 
in  vast  and  silent  mirth. 

"Doan  you  trubble  long  o'  Missus,  honey,"  she  said, 
nodding  encouragingly  at  Mara.  "She  jes'  like  one  dat 
lib  in  de  dark  an'  can't  see  notin'  right."  Then  in  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling  she  added,  "You  po'  honey  lam',  doan 
you  see  you'se  got  to  take  keer  ob  her  jes'  as  ef  she  was 
a  chile?'' 

"Yes,"  said  Mara,  sadly,  "I've  been  compelled  to  see  it 
at  last." 

"Now  doan  you  be  'scouraged.  'Tween  us  we  take  keer 
ob  her,  an'  she  be  a  heap  betteh  ofi  eben  ef  she  doan  know 
it.     You  hab  no  dinner  yit?" 

"We  were  just  going  to  get  it  as  you  came." 

"Well  now,  honey,  I  habn't  had  a  bite  nudder,  an'  I'se 
gwine  to  take  dinneh  heah  ef  you'se  willin'." 

"Why,  surely,  Aun'  Sheba.  It's  little  we  have,  you  but 
know  I'd  share  my  last  crust  with  you." 

Again  the  guest  was  bubbling  over  with  good-natured 
merriment.  "We  ain't  got  to  de  las'  crus'  yit,  an'  I  couldn't 
make  my  dinneh  on  a  crus'  nohow.  Dar's  one  ting  I'se  jes' 
got  to  'sist  on  in  de  pahnaship.  I  don't  keer  notin'  'bout 
'count  books  and  sich,  but  ef  we'se  gwine  to  make  a  fort'n 
you  got  to  hab  a  heap  o'  po'er  in  you'se  arms.  You  got  to 
hab  a  strong  back  and  feel  peart  all  ober.  Dis  de  ony  ting 
I  'sist  on.     Now  how  you  gwine  to  be  plump  and  strong?" 

"Oh,  I'm  pretty  strong,  and  I'll  get  stronger  now  that 
1  have  hope,  and  see  my  way  a  little." 

"Hope  am  bery  good  fer  'sert,  honey,  but  we  want 
somep'n  solider  to  start  in  on.  You  jes'  set  de  table  in 
de  oder  room,  an'  I'll  be  de  brack  raben  dat' 11  pervide. 
Now  you  must  min'  kase  I'se  doing  'cording  to  Scripter, 
an'  we  neber  hab  no  luck  'tall  if  we  go  agin  Scripter." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mara,  laughing,  "you  shall  have  your 


MARA'S    PURPOSE  59 

own  way.  I  see  througti  all  your  talk,  but  I  know  you'll 
feel  bad  if  you  can't  carry  out  your  purpose.  You'll  have 
a  better  dinner,  too." 

"Yeh,  yeh,  she  knows  a  heap  moah'n  me,"  thought 
Aun'  Sheba  when  alone,  "but  I  ^now  some  tings  too,  bress 
her  heart.  I  kin  see  dat  her  cheeks  am  pale  and  thin  an' 
dat  her  eyes  am  gettin'  so  big  and  brack  dat  her  purty  face 
am  like  a  little  house  wid  big  winders.  She  got  quality 
blood  in  her  vein,  shuah,  but  habn't  got  neah  'null.  Heah's 
de  'terial  wat  gibs  hope  sometimes  better' n  preachin,"  and 
she  whipped  out  the  steak  and  prepared  it  for  the  broiler. 
Then  she  clapped  some  potatoes  into  the  oven,  threw  to- 
gether the  constituents  of  light  biscuit,  and  put  the  coffee 
over  the  fire.  A  natural  born  cook,  she  was  deft  and  quick, 
and  had  a  substantial  repast  ready  in  an  amazingly  short 
time.  Soon  it  was  smoking  on  the  table,  and  then  she  said 
with  a  significant  little  nod  at  Mara,  "Now  I'se  gwine  to 
wait  on  Missus  like  ole  times." 

Mara  understood  her  and  did  not  protest,  for  she  felt  the 
necessity  of  humoring  her  aunt,  who  quite  thawed  out  at 
the  semblance  of  her  former  state.  While  the  poor  lady 
enlarged  on  the  thought  that  such  should  be  the  normal 
condition  of  affairs,  and  would  be  if  the  world  were  not 
wholly  out  of  joint,  she  nevertheless  dined  so  heartily  as 
to  prove  that  she  could  still  enjoy  the  good  things  of  life 
if  they  were  provided  without  personal  compromise  on  her 
part.  Mara  made  a  silent  note  of  this,  and  felt  more  strongly 
than  ever  that  her  aunt's  needs  and  not  her  words  must  con- 
trol her  actions.  After  dinner  she  said,  "Come,  aunty,  you 
have  had  much  to  try  your  nerves  of  late,  and  there  must 
be  much  more  not  in  harmony  with  your  feelings.  It  can't 
be  helped,  but  I  absolve  you  of  all  responsibility,  and  I 
know  very  well  if  you  had  what  was  once  your  own, 
I  would  not  have  to  raise  my  hand.  You  see  I  am  not 
seeking  relief  in  the  way  that  is  so  utterly  distasteful  to 
you,  and,  when  you  come  to  think  this  plan  all  over,  you 
will  admit  that  it  is  the  one  that  would  attract  the  least  at- 


60  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

tentioD,  and  involve  the  least  change.     Now  lie  down  and 
take  a  good  rest  this  afternoon. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  with  the  air  of  one  yielding 
a  great  deal,  "I  will  submit,  even  though  I  cannot  approve, 
on  the  one  condition  that  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
Mr.  Clancy." 

A  painful  flush  overspread  Mara's  features,  and  she  re- 
plied in  a  constrained  voice,  "You  will  have  no  occasion  to 
worry  about  Mr.  Clancy.  After — "  then  remembering  that 
Aun'  Sheba  was  within  ear-shot,  she  concluded,  "Mr.  Clancy 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  when  he  knows  what  is  tak* 
ing  place.  When  you  have  thought  it  over  you  will  see 
that  my  plan  makes  me  independent  of  every  one." 

"That  is,  if  you  succeed,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hunter,  "and 
it  will  be  about  the  only  thing  to  be  said  in  its  favor." 

This  degree  of  toleration  obtained,  Mara  prepared  to  join 
Aun'  Sheba  in  the  kitchen,  with  the  purpose  of  giving  her 
whole  thought  and  energy  to  the  securing  of  an  indepen- 
dence, now  coveted  more  than  ever.  In  spite  of  the  influ- 
ences and  misapprehensions  of  her  life  which  had  tended 
to  separate  her  from  Clancy,  when  she  fully  learned  that 
he  was  affiliating  with  those  who  dwelt  as  aliens  in  her 
thoughts,  she  had  been  overborne  by  his  words  and  the 
promptings  of  her  own  heart.  She  was  glad,  indeed,  that 
she  had  not  revealed  what  she  now  regarded  as  her  weak- 
ness, feeling  that  it  would  have  complicated  matters  most 
seriously.  While  she  had  been  compelled  to  see  the  folly 
of  seclusion  and  inaction,  the  natural  result  of  a  morbid 
pride  which  blinds  as  well  as  paralyzes,  she  was  by  no 
means  ready  to  accept  his  views  or  go  to  his  lengths. 
She  would  have  shared  poverty  with  him  gladly  if  he 
would  continue  to  be  "a  true  Southerner,"  in  other  words, 
one  who  submitted  in  cold  and  unrelenting  protest  to  the 
new  order  of  things.  In  accepting  this  new  order,  and  in 
availing  himself  of  it  to  advance  his  fortunes  and  those 
of  his  State  as  he  also  claimed,  he  alienated  her  in  spite  of 
all  his  arguments,  and  his  avowed  love.     She  felt  that  he 


MARA'S    PURPOSE  61 

should  take  the  ground  with  her  that  they  had  suffered 
too  deeply,  and  had  been  wronged  too  greatly,  to  ignore 
the  past.  They  were  a  conquered  people,  but  so  were  the 
Poles  and  Alsatians.  Were  those  subject  races  ready  to 
take  the  hands  that  had  struck  them  and  still  held  them 
in  thraldom  ?  Their  indignant  enmity  was  patriotism,  not 
hate.  Now  that  the  habitual  thoughts  of  her  life  had 
been  given  time  to  resume  their  control,  she  felt  all  the 
more  bitterly  what  seemed  a  hopeless  separation.  The 
North  had  not  only  robbed  her  of  kindred  and  property, 
but  was  now  taking  her  lover.  She  knew  she  loved  him, 
yet  not  for  the  sake  of  her  love  would  she  be  false  to  her 
deep-rooted  feelings  and  convictions.  If  he  had  seen  how 
nearly  she  yielded  to  Am,  not  to  his  views,  the  previous 
evening,  it  would  have  been  doubly  hard  to  show  him  in 
the  end  that  she  could  never  share  in  his  life,  unless  he 
adopted  her  attitude  of  passive  submission  to  what  could 
not  be  helped. 

Others  might  do  as  they  pleased,  but  their  dignity  and 
personal  memories  required  this  position,  and,  as  she  had 
said  to  him,  she  could  take  no  other  course  without  hypoc- 
risy, revolting  alike  to  her  feelings  and  sense  of  honor. 
His  strong  words,  however,  combining  with  the  circum- 
stances of  her  lot,  had  broken  the  spell  of  her  aunt's  in- 
fluence, and  had  planted  in  her  mind  the  thought  that  any 
useless  suffering  on  her  part  was  not  loyalty  to  the  memory 
of  her  father  and  mother.  Her  new  impulse  was  to  make 
the  most  and  best  of  her  life  as  far  as  she  could  conscien- 
tiously: and  the  hope  would  assert  itself  that  if  she  were 
firm  he  would  eventually  be  won  over  to  her  position.  "If 
he  loves  as  I  do,"  she  thought,  "he  will  be.  He,  no  doubt, 
is  sincere,  but  he  has  been  beguiled  into  seeing  things  in 
the  light  of  his  immediate  interests.  Love  to  me,  if  it  is 
genuine,  and  loyalty  to  the  cause  for  which  his  father  gave 
his  life,  should  lead  him  to  the  dignified  submission  of  the 
conquered  and  away  from  all  association  with  the  conquer- 
ors that  can  be  avoided.    I'll  prove  to  him,"  was  her  mental 


62  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

conclusion,  accompanied  with  a  flash,  of  her  dark  eyes,  "that 
a  girl  ignorant  of  the  world  and  its  ways,  and  with  the  help 
only  of  a  former  slave,  can  earn  her  bread,  and  thus  show 
him  how  needless  are  his  Northern  allies." 

Thoughts  like  these  had  been  swiftly  coursing  through 
her  mind  while  dining,  and  therefore,  when  she  joined  Ann' 
Sheba  in  the  kitchen,  she  was  ready  to  employ  every  fac- 
ulty, sharpened  to  the  utmost,  in  the  tasks  before  her. 
In  that  humble  arena,  and  by  the  prosaic  method  contem- 
plated, she  would  assert  her  unsubdued  spirit,  and  maintain 
a  consistency  which  should  not  be  marred,  even  at  the  bid- 
ding of  love,  by  an  insincere  acceptance  of  his  views  and 
associations. 


NEVER   FORGET.:    NEVER   FORGIVE  63 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

NEVER  forget;  NEVER  FORGIVE 

WHILE  Aun'  Sheba  finished  her  dinner  Mara  began 
to  open  and  put  in  their  places  the  slender  ma- 
terials which  she  had  purchased  as  her  first  step 
toward  self-support.  The  generous  meal,  and  especially  the 
coffee  combining  with  the  strong  incentive  of  her  purpose, 
gave  elasticity  to  her  step  and  flushed  her  face  slightly  with 
color.  The  old  aunty  watched  her  curiously  and  sympa- 
thetically as  she  thought,  "Bress  her  heart  how  purty  she 
am,  bendin'  heah  an'  dar  like  a  willow  an'  lookin'  de  lady 
ebery  inch  while  she  doin'  kitchen  work!  Quar  pahner  fer 
sech  an  ole  woman  as  me  ter  hab,  but  I  dun  declar  dat  her 
han's,  ef  dey  am  little,  seem  po'ful  smart.  Dej  takes  hole 
on  tings  jes'  as  if  dey'd  coax  'em  right  along  whar  she 
wants  dem!"  Then  she  broke  out,  ''Wot  a  fool  dat  Owen 
Clancy  am!" 

Mara  started  and  was  suddenly  busy  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  room.  "I  reckon  you  are  the  only  one  that  thinks  so, 
Aun'  Sheba,"  she  remarked  quietly. 

''Ef  he  could  see  you  now  he'd  tink  so  hisself." 

"Very  likely,"  and  there  was  a  little  bitterness  in  Mara's 
accent. 

''De  mo'  fool  he  be  den,"  said  Aun'  Sheba  with  an  indig- 
nant toss  of  her  head.  ' '  Whar  ud  his  eyes  be  ef  he  could 
see  you  and  not  go  down  on  his  marrow-bones,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  Habn't  I  seen  all  de  quality  ob  dis  town  ?  and  dat 
fer  de  new  quality,"  with  a  snap  of  her  fingers,  "an  you 
take  de  shine  off'n  dem  all  eben  in  de  kitchen.  Law  sakes, 
what  kin'  ob  blood  dat  man  Clancy  hab  to  lebe  yoa  kase 


64  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

you  po'?     Pears  ter  me  de  ole  cun'l,  his  fader,  ud  be  orful 
figety  in  his  coffin." 

''Mr.  Clancy  has  not  left  me  because  1  am  poor,  Ann' 
Sheba,"  said  Mara  gravely.  "You  do  him  great  injustice. 
We  are  not  so  good  friends  as  we  were  simply  because  we 
cannot  agree  on  certain  subjects.  But  I  would  rather  you 
would  not  talk  about  him  to  me  or  to  any  one  else.  Come 
now,  you  must  give  me  some  lessons  in  your  mystery  of 
making  cakes  that  melt  in  one's  mouth.  Otherwise  people 
will  say  you  are  growing  old  and  losing  your  high  art." 

"Dey  better  not  tell  me  no  sech  lies.  Law,  Missy,  you 
is  gwine  ter  beat  me  all  holler  wen  oust  you  gits  de  hang 
ob  de  work.  You  little  white  ban's  gib  fancy  teches  dat 
ain't  in  my  big  black  han'.  Arter  all,  tain't  de  ban's;  it's 
de  min'.  Dere's  my  darter  Mis  Watson.  Neber  could  larn 
her  much  mo'n  plain  cookin'.  Dere's  a  knack  at  dese  tings 
dat's  bawn  in  one.  It's  wot  you  granpa  used  ter  call  genus, 
an'  you  alius  hab  it,  eben  when  you  was  a  chile  an'  want 
ter  muss  in  de  kitchen." 

Thus  full  of  reminiscence  and  philosophy  eminently  sat- 
isfactory to  her  own  mind,  Aun'  Sheba  taught  her  apt  and 
eager  pupil  the  secrets  of  her  craft.  Mara  was  up  with  the 
dawn  on  the  following  day,  and  achieved  fair  success. 
Other  lessons  followed,  and  it  was  not  very  long  before 
the  girl  passed  beyond  the  imitative  stage  and  began  to 
reason  upon  the  principles  involved  in  her  work  and  then 
to  experiment. 

One  day  an  old  customer  said  to  Aun'  Sheba:  "There's 
a  new  hand  at  the  bellows." 

"Dunno  not'n  'bout  bellas.     Ain't  de  cakes  right?" 

"Well,  then,  you've  got  some  new  receipts." 

"Like  a'nuff  I  hab,"  said  the  vender  warily.  "De  pint 
am,  howsumeber,  isn't  de  cakes  good?" 

"Yes,  they  seem  better  every  day,  but  they  are  not  the 
same  every  day.     I  reckon  some  one's  coaching  you." 

"Law  sakes,  Massa,  wo't  you  mean  by  coachin'  me?" 

"Do  you  make  the  cakes  ?"  was  asked  pointblank. 


NEVER   FORGET;    NEVER   FORGIVE  65 

"Now,  Massa,  you's  gittin'  too  cur' us.  Wot  de  fecripter 
say?     Ask  no  questions  fer  conscience'  sake." 

"Come,  come,  Ann'  Sheba;  if  you  begin  to  wrest  Scrip- 
ture, I'll  take  pains  to  find  you  out." 

She  shuffled  away  in  some  trepidation  and  shook  her 
head  over  the  problem  of  keeping  her  relations  with  Mara 
secret.  "Missy  puttin'  her  min'  in  de  cakes  an'  I  didn't 
hab  much  min'  to  put  in  an'  folks  know  de  dif'ence,"  she 
soliloquized.  Later  on  she  was  down  among  the  cotton 
warehouses,  and  finding  herself  weary  and  warm,  stopped 
to  rest  in  the  shade  of  a  building.  Suddenly  Owen  Clancy 
turned  the  corner.  His  brow  was  contracted  as  if  in  deep 
and  not  agreeable  thought. 

Aun'  Sheba's  lowered  at  him,  for  he  seemed  about  to 
pass  her  without  noticing  her.  The  moment  he  became 
aware  of  her  presence,  however,  he  stopped  and  fixed 
upon  her  his  penetrating  gray  eyes.  His  gaze  was  so  per- 
sistent and  stern  that  she  was  disconcerted,  but  sh^  spoke 
with  her  accustomed  assurance:  "You  ain't  gwine  ter  call 
de  perlice,  is  you,  Mars'  Clancy?"  and  she  placed  her  arms 
akimbo  on  her  hips. 

This  reference  was  shrewd,  for  it  reminded  him  that  his 
grievance  was  purely  personal  and  one  that  he  could  not 
resent  in  her  case,  yet  his  heart  was  so  sore  with  the  suspi- 
cion that  Mara  was  looking  to  this  negress  for  help  instead 
of  to  himself,  that  for  the  time  being  he  detested  the  woman. 
Love  is  not  a  judicial  quality,  and  rarely  has  patience  with 
those  who  interfere  with  its  success.  He  had  hoped  that 
eventually  the  pressure  of  poverty  would  turn  Mara's 
thoughts  to  him,  especially  as  he  had  revealed  so  emphati- 
cally his  wish  to  help  her  disinterestedly  as  a  friend  even; 
but  if  his  present  fears  were  well  grounded,  he  would  have 
to  admit  that  her  heart  had  grown  utterly  cold  toward  him. 

"Why  should  you  think  of  the  police,  Aun'  Sheba,  un- 
less you  have  something  on  your  mind  ?' '  he  asked,  coolly 
removing  the  cover  of  the  basket  and  helping  himself. 
"You  didn't  make  these  cakes.     Did  you  steal  them?" 


66  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

"Marse  Clancy,  what  you  take  me  fer  ?" 

''That  depends  on  how  honest  your  answers  are/' 

"I  ain't  'bliged  ter  answer  'tall." 

"Ob,  you're  afraid  then." 

"No,  I  ain't  afeerd.     Ef  dey  is  stolen,  you'se  a  'ceivin 
ob  stolen  goods,  fum  de  way  dem  cakes  dis'pearin'." 

"You're  pert,  Aun'  Sheba." 

"Oh  co'se  I'se  peart.  Hab  to  be  spry  to  arn  a  libin'  in 
dese  yer  times,  but  I  can  do  it  fum  dem  dat's  fren'ly  and 
not  fum  dem  dat  glower  at  me. ' ' 

"Will  you  tell  me  if  Miss  Wallingford — " 

"Marse  Clancy,  hab  Miss  Wallingford  sent  you  word  dat 
she  want  you  to  know  'bout  her  'fairs?" 

"I  understand, "  he  said  almost  savagely,  and  throwing 
a  quarter  into  the  basket  he  passed  on. 

There  had  been  a  tacit  understanding  at  first  that  Mara's 
part  in  Aun'  Sheba's  traffic  should  not  be  revealed.  The 
girl  had  not  wholly  shaken  oflE  the  influence  of  her  aunt's 
opposition,  and  she  shrank  with  almost  morbid  dread  from 
being  the  subject  of  remark  even  among  those  of  her  own 
class.  The  chief  and  controlling  motive  for  secrecy,  how- 
ever, had  been  distrust,  the  fear  that  the  undertaking  would 
not  be  successful.  As  the  days  had  passed  this  fear  had 
been  removed.  Aun'  Sheba  did  not  come  to  make  her  re- 
turns until  after  she  had  taken  her  supper  in  the  evening, 
and  at  about  ten  in  the  morning  she  reached  Mara's  home 
by  an  unfrequented  side  street.  There  were  those,  however, 
who  had  begun  to  notice  the  regularity  of  her  visits  and 
among  them  was  Owen  Clancy.  We  have  also  seen  that  the 
daintiness  of  the  viands  had  caused  surmises. 

Mara  had  become  preoccupied  with  her  success  and  with 
plans  for  increasing  it.  At  first  Aun'  Sheba  had  supple- 
mented her  attempts,  and  her  plan  had  been  entered  on 
so  quietly  and  carried  forward  so  smoothly  that  even  Mrs. 
Hunter  was  becoming  reconciled  to  the  scheme  although 
she  tried  to  conceal  the  fact.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  two 
women  more  ignorant  of  the  world,  or  more  averse  to  being 


NEVER    FORGET;    NEVER    FORGIVE  67 

known  by  it,  yet  from  it  the  unsophisticated  girl  now  hoped 
to  divert  a  little  sustaining  rill  of  currency  without  a  ripple 
of  general  comment  until  the  hour  should  come  when  she 
could  reveal  the  truth  to  Clancy  as  a  rebuke  to  his  course 
and  as  a  suggestion  that  a  man  might  do  more  and  yet  not 
compromise  himself.  Full  of  these  thoughts  and  hopes,  her 
life,  if  not  happy,  had  at  least  ceased  to  stagnate  and  was 
growing  in  zest  and  interest. 

The  day  on  which  occurred  the  events  just  narrated  was 
destined  to  prove  a  fateful  one.  When  Aun'  Sheba  came 
in  the  evening  it  was  soon  evident  that  she  had  something 
on  her  mind.  She  paid  little  heed  to  the  accounts  while 
Mara  was  writing  them  down  and  explaining  the  margm  of 
profit,  as  the  girl  was  always  careful  to  do,  for  it  satisfied 
her  conscience  that  her  over-loyal  partner  was  prospermg 
now  as  truly  as  before.  After  everything  had  been  at- 
tended to  and  the  programme  arranged  for  the  morning, 
Aun'  Sheba  still  sat  and  fidgeted  in  her  chair.  Mara  leaned 
back  in  hers  and  looking  across  the  kitchen  table  said:  "Be 
honest  now.     There's  something  you  want  to  say." 

"Don't  want  ter  say  it,  but  s'pose  I  ought." 

''I  reckon  you  had,  Aun'  Sheba." 

The  woman's  native  shrewdness  had  been  sharpened  by 
the  varied  experience  of  her  calling,  and  she  had  become 
convinced  that  the  policy  of  secrecy  would  be  a  failure. 
What  would  be  Mara's  course  when  compelled  to  face  the 
truth,  was  the  question  that  troubled  her.  The  kind  soul 
hoped  that  it  would  make  no  difference,  and  proposed  to 
use  all  her  tact  to  induce  the  girl  to  continue  her  enterprise 
openly,  believing  that  this  course  would  be  best  for  several 
reasons.  She  had  the  wit  to  know  that  Mara  would  yield 
far  more  out  of  consideration  for  her  than  for  any  thought 
of  self,  so  she  said  as  a  masterpiece  of  strategy,  "Marse 
Clancy  ax  me  to-day  if  I  stole  de  cakes." 

"What,"  cried  Mara,  flushing  hotly. 

"Jes  dat— ef  I  stole  de  cakes;  an'  anoder  man  say  I  was 
gittin'  new  resects  or  dat  somebody  was  coachin'  me,  what- 


68  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

eber  dat  is.     Den  he  put  it  right  straight,  'Did  you  make 

'em?'  " 

"Oh,  Aun'  Sheba,  I've  thoughtlessly  been  causing 
trouble.  I  should  have  continued  to  make  the  cakes  just 
as  you  did,  and  it  was  only  to  divert  my  mind  that  I  tried 
other  ways.     I  won't  do  so  any  more." 

"Dunno  'bout  dat,  honey." 

"Indeed  I  will  not  when  I  promise  you." 

"I  doesn't  want  any  sech  a  promise.  De  folks  like  de 
new-fangle'  cakes  betteh,  an'  gwine  back  to  de  ole  way 
wouldn't  do  no  good.  It's  all  boun'ter  come  out  dat  I'se 
sellin'  fer  you  as  well  as  fer  me.  Marse  Clancy  axed  ef 
you  wasn't,  leastways  he  'gan  to  ax  when  I  shut  him  up." 

"How  did  you  shut  him  up?"  said  Mara,  breathing 
quickly. 

"By  axin'  him  anoder  question.  Yah,  yah,  I'se  Yankee 
'nujff  fer  dat.  I  say,  'Hab  Miss  Wallingford  sen'  you  word 
dat  she  want  you  to  know  'bout  her  'fairs'  ?" 

"Didn't  he  say  anything  after  that?" 

"Yes,  he  say  'I  understand,'  an'  I  'spect  he  do,  fer  he 
drap  a  quarter  in  my  basket  an'  look  as  if  he  was  po'ful 
mad  as  he  walk  away.     He  better  min'  his  own  business." 

Mara  understood  Clancy  and  Aun'  Sheba  did  not.  The 
young  girl  was  troubled  and  perplexed,  for  she  could  not 
but  see  in  her  lover's  mind  the  effect  of  her  step.  She  felt 
that  it  was  natural  he  should  be  hurt  and  even  angered  to 
learn  that,  after  all  he  had  offered  to  do  for  her,  she  should 
avail  herself  of  Aun'  Sheba's  services  instead  of  his.  What 
she  feared  most  was  that  he  would  take  it  as  final  evidence 
that  she  was  hostile  to  him  personally  and  not  merely 
estranged  because  he  would  not  conform  his  views  and  life 
to  her  own.  Her  secret  and  dearest  purpose,  that  of  teach- 
ing him  that  he  could  live  without  compromise  as  she  could, 
might  be  defeated.  What  if  the  very  act  should  lead  to  the 
belief  that  she  no  longer  wished  to  have  any  part  in  his  life  ? 
A  girl  cannot  feel  that  same  toward  a  man  who  has  told  her 
openly  of  his  love,  for  such  words  break  down  the  barriers 


NEVER    FORGET;    NEVER    FORGIVE  69 

of  maidcDly  reserve  even  in  her  own  self- communings.  Since 
he  had  spoken  so  plainly  she  could  think  more  plainly.  She 
knew  well  how  mistaken  Aun'  Sheba  was  in  her  judgment, 
but  could  not  explain  that  Clancy  felt  he  was  not  only  re- 
jected as  a  lover  but  had  been  ignored  even  as  a  helpful 
friend;  and  her  own  love  taught  her  to  gauge  the  bitterness 
of  this  apparent  truth. 

She  soon  became  conscious  that  Aun'  Sheba  was  watch- 
ing her  troubled  face,  and  to  hide  her  deeper  thoughts  she 
said,  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  all  bound  to  come  out.  Well, 
let  It.     You  shall  not  be  misjudged." 

"Law  sake,  Missy,  wot  does  I  keer!  De  ting  dat  trouble 
me  is  dat  you'se  gwine  to  keer  too  much.  I  doan  want  you 
to  gib  up  and  I  doan  want  you  to  be  flustered  ef  you  fin'  it's 
known.  De  pa'hnership,  as  you  call  'im,  been  doin'  you  a 
heap  o'  good.  You'se  min'  been  gettin'  int'usted  an'  you 
fo'gits  you'se  troubles.  Dat's  wot  pleases  me.  Now  to  my 
po'  sense,  folks  is  a  heap  betteh  off,  takin'  keer  ob  dem 
selves,  dan  wen  dey  worry  'bout  wat  dis  one  say  an'  dat 
one  do.  Dere  is  lots  ob  folks  dat' 11  talk  'bout  you  a  month 
dat  won't  lif  dere  finger  for  you  a  minit.  An'  wat  can  dey 
say,  honey,  dat'U  harm  you?  You  prouder'n  all  ob  dem, 
but  you  got  dis  kin'  ob  pride.  Ef  de  rent  fall  due  you  fight 
again  eben  you'se  ole  nuss  pay  in'  it.  Talk's  only  breff,  but 
an  empty  pocket  mean  an  orful  lot  ob  trouble  to  folks  who 
ain't  willin'  to  take  out  ob  dere  pocket  wat  dey  didn't  put 
dere." 

"Yes,  Aun'  Sheba,  I  think  it  would  be  the  worst  kind 
of  trouble." 

"I  know  it  ud  be  fer  you,  but  dar's  Unc.  He'd  like  his 
pocket  filled  ebery  day  an'  he  wouldn't  keer  who  filled  it  ef 
he  could  spend.  He'd  say  de  Lawd  pervided.  Unc.'d 
rather  trust  de  Lawd  dan  work  any  day." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  not  vezy  religious,"  said  Mara, 
smiling. 

"Well,  I  of'n  wonder  wedder  I'se  'ligious  or  no,"  re- 
sumed Aun'  Sheba,  introspectively.     "Some  sarmons  and 


70  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

prars  seem  like  bread  made  out  ob  bran,  de  bigger  de  loaf 
de  wuss  it  is.  Unc.  says  I'se  very  cole  an  backsliden,  but 
I'd  be  a  heap  colder  ef  1  didn't  keep  up  de  wood-pile. 

"And  you  help  others  keep  up  their  wood-piles." 

''Well,  I  reckon  I  does,  but  dere  ain't  much  'ligion  in 
dat.  Dat's  kin'  ob  human  natur  which  de  preacher  say  am 
bad,  bery  bad  stuff.  De  Lawd  knows  I  say  my  prars  sho't 
so  as  to  be  up  an'  doin'.  Anyhow  I  doan  belebe  he  likes 
ter  be  hollered  at  so,  as  dey  do  in  our  meetin'  an'  Unc.  says 
dat  sech  talk  am  'phemous.  But  dat  ain't  heah  nor  dar. 
We'se  gwine  right  along,  honey,  ain't  we?  We'se  gwine 
ter  min'  our  own  business  jes'  as  if  we'se  the  bigges'  pahners 
in  de  town?" 

"Yes,  Aun'  Sheba,  you  can  say  what  you  please  here- 
after, and  I  want  you  to  come  and  go  openly.  I  should 
have  taken  the  stand  before  and  saved  you  from  coming  out 
evenings.  It  has  been  far  more  on  Aunty's  account  than  on 
my  own." 

"Well,  honey,  now  my  min's  at  res'  an'  I  belebe  we  do 
po'ful  lot  ob  trade.  Dat  orful  human  natur  gwine  to  come 
in  now  an'  I  belebe  dat  folks  who  know  you  an'  all  'bout 
you'se  family  will  help  you,  'stid  ob  talkin'  agin  you.  You 
see.  You  knows  I  doan'  mean  no  disrespec'  to  ole  Missus, 
but  she'd  jes  sit  down  an'  starbe,  tinkin'  ob  de  good  dinners 
she  orter  hab,  an'  did  hab  in  de  ole  times.  All  you'se  folks 
in  hebin  is  a  smilin'  on  you,  honey.  Dey  is,  fer  I  feels  it 
in  my  bones.  You'se  got  de  co'age  ob  you  pa  an'  granpa 
an'  dey  know,  jes'  as  we  knows,  dat  ole  Missus  take  a  heap 
mo'  comfort  grumblin'  dan  in  bein'  hungry." 

"Oh,  Aun'  Sheba,  do  you  truly  think  they  know  about 
my  present  life?"  the  girl  asked,  with  wet  eyes. 

"Dat's  a  bery  deep  question,  honey,  but  it  kin'  a  seem 
reason'ble  ter  me  dat  wen  you  gettm'  on  well  an'  wen  you 
doin'  good  to  some  po'  soul  de  Lawd'U  sen'  an  angel  to  tell 
'em.  Wen  dey  ain't  hearin'  notin'  I  spects  dey's  got  to 
tink  as  we  does  dat  no  news  is  good  news." 

The  girl  was  deeply  moved,  for  the  vernacular  of  her  old 


NEVER   FORGET;    NEVER   FORGIVE  71 

nurse  had  been  familiar  from  childhood  and  did  not  detract 
from  the  sacred  themes  suggested.  "Oh,  that  I  could  have 
seen  my  father,"  she  sighed.  "Portraits  are  so  unsatisfy- 
ing.    Tell  me  again  just  how  he  looked." 

"He'd  be  proud  ob  you,  honey,  an'  you  kin  be  proud  ob 
him.  You  hab  his  eyes,  only  you'se  is  bigger  and  of'n  look 
as  if  you'se  sorrowin'  way  down  iu  you  soul.  Sometimes, 
eben  wen  you  was  a  baby,  you'd  look  so  long  an'  fixed  wid 
you  big  sad  eyes  as  if  you  seed  it  all  an'  know'd  it  all  dat  I 
used  to  boo-hoo  right  out.  Nuder  times  I'd  be  skeered,  fer 
you'd  reach  out  you'se  little  arms  as  ef  you  seed  you'se  moder 
an'  wanted  to  go  to  her.  De  Lawd  know  bes'  why  he  let  such 
folks  die.  She  was  like  a  passion  vine  creepin'  up  de  oak 
—all  tender  and  clingin'  an'  lubin',  wid  tears  in  her  blue 
eyes  ebin  wen  he  pettin'  her,  an'  he  was  tall  an'  straight  an' 
strong  wid  eyes  dat  laffed  or  flashed  jes  as  de  'casion  was. 
I  kin  see  him  now  come  marchin'  down  Meetin'  Street  at  de 
head  ob  his  men,  all  raised  hisself.  He  walk  straight  as  an 
arrow  wid  his  sword  flashin'  in  de  sunshine  an'  a  hundred 
men  step  tromp,  tromp,  arter  him  as  ef  dey  proud  to  follow. 
Missy  Mary  stood  on  de  balc'ny  lookin'  wid  all  her  vi'let 
eyes  an'  wabin'  her  hank' chief.  Oh,  how  purty  she  look! 
de  roses  in  her  cheek,  her  bref  comin'  quick,  bosom  risin' 
an'  fallin',  an'  she  a-tremblin'  an'  alibe  all  ober  wid  excite- 
ment an'  pride  an'  lub.  Wen  he  right  afore  de  balc'ny  his 
voice  rung  out  like  a  trumpet,  'Eight  'bout,  face.  'Sent 
arms.'  I  dun  declar  dat  'fore  we  could  wink  dey  was  all  in 
Ime  frontin'  us  wid  dere  guns  held  out.  Den  he  s'lute  her 
wid  his  sword  an'  she  take  a  red  rose  fum  her  bosom  an' 
trow  it  to  him  an'  he  pick  it  up  an'  put  it  to  his  lips;  den 
it  was  'Eight  'bout!  March!'  an'  away  dey  went  tromp, 
tromp,  towa'ds  de  Bat'ry.  I  kin  see  it  all.  I  kin  see  it  all. 
0  Lawd,  Lawd,  dey's  all  dead,"  and  she  rocked  back  and 
forth,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron. 

Mara  spraug  up,  her  streaming  tears  dried  by  the  hot- 
ness  of  her  indignation  as  she  cried,  "And  I  too  can  see 
him,  with  his  little  band,  dashing  against  almost  an  army 


72  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

and  then  trodden  in  the  soil  he  died  to  defend.  No,  no, 
Oweu  Clancy,  never!" 

"Ah,"  said  a  low  stern  voice,  "that's  the  true  spirit. 
Now,  Mara,  yon  are  your  father's  child.  Never  forget; 
never  forgive,"  and  they  saw  that  Mrs.  Hunter  stood  with 
them  in  the  dim  kitchen. 

"Dunno  'bout  dat,  Missus.  Eeckon  de  wah  am  ober, 
an' what  we  gwine  ter  do  wid  de  Lawd's  prar  ?  Dar,  dar, 
honey,  'pose  you'se  nerves.  'Taint  bes'  to  tink  too  much 
ob  de  ole  times,  an'  I  mustn't  talk  to  you  so  no  mo'." 


A    NEW  SOLACE  73 


CHAPTEK  IX 

A     NEW     SOLACE 

ON  her  way  home  Aun'  Sbeba  shook  her  head  more 
than  once  in  perplexity  and  disapprobation  over 
what  she  had  heard.  She  had  the  freedom  of 
speech  of  an  old  family  servant  who  had  never  been  harshly 
repressed  even  when  a  slave,  and  now  was  added  the  fear- 
lessness of  a  free  woman.  Her  affection  for  Mara  was  so 
strong  that  in  her  ignorance  she  shared  in  some  of  the  girl's 
prejudices  against  the  North,  but  not  in  her  antipathy.  The 
thought  that  Clancy  had  waned  in  his  regard  or  that  he 
could  even  think  of  a  Northern  girl  after  having  "kep' 
company"  with  Mara,  had  been  exasperating,  but  now 
Aun'  Sheba  began  to  suspect  that  the  estrangement  was 
not  wholly  his  fault.  "She  set  agin  him  by  his  gwine  Norf 
an'  his  habin'  to  do  wid  de  folks  dat  she  an'  ole  Missus 
hates.  Doan  see  why  he  is  mad  at  me  'bout  it.  Eeckon 
he's  mad  anyhow  an'  can't  speak  peac'ble  to  nobody. 
Well,  I  likes  him  a  heap  betteh  in  dat  view  ob  de  case 
an'  he  kin  glower  at  me  all  he  please  'long  as  he  ain't 
'sertin'  young  Missy  case  she  is  po'.  Couldn't  stan'  dat  no 
how.  He's  willin'  an'  she  ain't,  an'  dat  wat  she  mean  by 
sayin'  'No,  Owen  Clancy,  nebbeh.'  She  won't  lis'n  to  him 
kase  he  doan  hate  de  Norf  like  pizen.  Now  dat  is  foolish- 
ness, an'  she's  sot  up  to  it  by  de  ole  Missus.  De  Norf  does 
as  well  as  it  know  how.  To  be  sure,  it  ain't  quality  like 
young  Missy,  but  it  buy  de  cotton  an'  it  got  de  po'r. 
Wat's  mo',  it  gib  me  a  chance  to  wuck  fer  mysef.  I  would 
do  as  much  fer  young  Missy  as  eber.     I'd  wuck  my  fin^s 


74  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

off  fer  her,  but  I  likes  ter  do  it  like  white  folks,  kase  I  lub 
her.  She  orten'  be  so  hard  on  young  Clancy.  He  got  his 
way  ter  make  and  dere'd  be  no  good  in  his  buttin'  his  head 
agin  a  wall.  Tings  am  as  dey  is,  an'  I'm  glad  dey  is  as  dey 
am.  Dey's  a  long  sight  betteh  fer  cullud  folks  and  white 
folks  too,  ef  dey's  a  min'  ter  pull  wid  de  curren'  sted  ob 
agin  it.  Massa  Clancy's  no  fool.  He  know  dis.  He  los' 
his  pa  an  his  prop'ty  too,  but  he  know  betteh  dan  to  go  on 
hatin'  fereber.  Dey  can't  spec'  me  to  uphole  dem  in  dis  fer 
it  agin  de  Scripter  an'  my  feelin's.  Ole  Missus  bery  'ligious. 
She  dun  fergit  wat  de  words  mean  she  say  ebry  Sunday.  But 
den,  wot  de  use  ob  callin'  ole  Missus  to  'count.  She  neber 
could  see  ony  her  side  ob  de  question.  It  don  make  any 
dif'ence  to  her  how  many  widers  dere  is  in  de  Norf  an'  she 
hab  jes  dinged  her  'pinions  inter  young  Missy  eber  sence 
she  was  bawn.  I'se  glad  ter  do  fer  dem  long  as  I  lib,  but 
I'se  gwine  ter  speak  my  min'  too." 

With  such  surmises  and  self-communings  she  reached 
her  home  and  found  Uncle  Sheba  asleep  in  his  chair  and 
the  fire  out.  She  nodded  at  him  ominously  and  muttered, 
"I  gib  him  anuder  lesson."  Slipping  quietly  into  the  bed- 
room, she  bolted  the  door,  and,  unrelenting  to  all  remon- 
strances left  him  to  get  through  the  night  as  well  as  he 
could  in  his  chair.  The  result  justified  the  wisdom  of  the 
means  employed,  for  thereafter  Uncle  Sheba  always  had  a 
good  fire  when  she  returned. 

Aun'  Sheba  had  correctly  i":iterpreted  the  ellipsis  sug- 
gested by  Mara's  passionate  utterance.  The  scenes  called 
up  by  her  old  nurse's  words  and  rendered  vivid  by  a  strong 
imagination  again  presented  themselves  as  an  impassable 
barrier  between  herself  and  her  lover  unless  he  should  feel 
their  significance  as  she  did.  As  a  woman  her  heart  was 
always  pleading  for  him,  but  when  strongly  excited  by  the 
story  of  the  past  her  anger  flamed  that  he  should  even  im- 
agine that  she  would  continue  her  regard  for  him.  Indeed 
she  wondered  and  was  almost  enraged  at  herself  that  she 
could  not  at  once  blot  out  his  image  and  dismiss  him  from 


A    NEW   SOLACE  75 

her  thoughts  when  he  was  taking  the  course  of  all  others 
most  repugnant  to  her.  At  such  moments  she  could  easily 
believe  that  all  was  over  between  them,  but  with  quiet  per- 
sistence her  heart  knew  better,  and  preferred  love  to  enmi- 
ties and  sad  memories. 

Moreover,  passionate  as  had  been  her  mood  there  was 
a  hard,  homely  common-sense  in  her  old  nurse's  words, 
"Eeckon  de  wah's  ober  an'  wat  you  gwine  ter  do  wid  de 
Lawd'sprar?"  that  quenched  her  fire  like  cold  water.  No 
one  can  be  m  a  false  position,  out  of  harmony  with  normal 
laws  and  principles,  without  meeting  spiritual  jars.  Mara 
was  too  young  and  too  intelligent  not  to  recognize  the  diffi- 
culties in  maintaining  her  position,  but  she  believed  sin- 
cerely that  the  circumstances  of  her  lot  justified  this  posi- 
tion and  made  it  the  only  honorable  one  for  her.  Northerners 
were  to  her  what  the  Philistines  were  to  the  ancient  Hebrews, 
the  hereditary  foes  from  which  she  had  suffered  the  chief  ills 
of  her  life.  To  compromise  with  them  was  to  compromise 
with  evil,  and  therefore  she  was  always  able  to  reason  away 
the  significance  of  all  words  like  those  of  Aun'  Sheba, 
although  for  the  moment  they  troubled  her. 

Mrs.  Hunter,  however,  had  long  since  been  incapable  of 
doubts  or  compunctions.  She  tolerated  Aun'  Sheba's  out- 
spokenness as  she  would  that  of  a  child  or  a  slave  babbling 
of  matters  far  above  her  comprehension. 

The  day  marked  a  change  in  Mara's  policy  and  action, 
and  these  led  to  some  very  important  experiences.  A  false 
pride  had  at  first  prompted,  or  at  least  induced  her  to  ac- 
quiesce in  secrecy ;  now  an  honest  pride  led  her  to  openness 
in  all  her  efforts  to  obtain  a  livelihood.  She  would  volun- 
teer no  information,  but  would  simply  go  on  in  an  unhesi- 
tating manner,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  might. 

They  soon  began  to  take  a  surprisingly  agreeable  form, 
for  the  quick  warm  sympathies  of  the  Southern  people  were 
touched.  Here  was  a  young  girl,  the  representative  of  one  of 
the  oldest  and  best  families,  seeking  quietly  and  unostenta- 
tiously to  support  herself  and  her  aged  aunt.      There  had 


76  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

been  scores  of  people  who  would  gladly  have  offered  her 
assistance,  but  they  had  respected  her  reticence  in  regard 
to  her  affairs  as  jealously  as  they  guarded  the  condition  of 
their  own.  Frank  in  the  extreme  with  each  other  in  most 
respects,  there  was  an  impoverished  class  in  the  city  who 
would  suffer  much  rather  than  reveal  pecuniary  need  or 
accept  the  slightest  approach  to  charity.  Poverty  was  no 
reproach  among  these  families  that  had  once  enjoyed  wealth 
in  abundance.  Indeed  it  was  rather  like  a  badge  of  honor, 
for  it  indicated  sacrifice  for  the  ''lost  cause"  and  an  unreadi- 
ness for  thrifty  compacts  and  dealings  with  those  hostile  to 
that  cause.  In  the  class  to  which  Mara  belonged,  therefore, 
she  gained  rather  than  lost  in  social  consideration,  and  espe- 
cial pains  were  taken  to  assure  her  of  this  fact. 

Those  in  whose  veins,  even  in  Mrs.  Hunter's  estimation, 
flowed  the  oldest  and  bluest  blood,  called  more  frequently 
and  spoke  words  of  cheer  and  encouragement.  That  good 
lady,  in  a  rich  but  antiquated  gown,  received  the  guests  and 
was  voluble  in  Mara's  praises  and  in  lamentation  over  the 
wrongs  of  the  past.  The  majority  were  sympathetic  listen- 
ers, but  all  were  glad  that  the  girl  could  do  and  was  willing 
to  do  something  more  than  complain.  To  their  credit  it 
should  be  said  that  they  were  ready  to  do  more  than  sym- 
pathize, for  even  the  most  straitened  found  that  they  could 
spare  something  for  Mara's  cake,  and  Aun'  Shea's  basket 
began  to  be  emptied  more  than  once  every  day.  Orders 
were  given  also,  and  the  young  girl  had  all  she  could  do 
to  keep  up  with  the  growing  demand. 

It  was  well  for  her  that  each  day  brought  its  regular 
work,  and  its  close  found  her  too  weary  for  the  brooding 
so  often  the  bane  of  idleness.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  that  was 
encouraging,  the  cheering  words  spoken  to  her,  the  elation 
of  Aun'  Sheba  and  the  excitement  resulting  from  her  hum- 
ble prosperity,  she  was  ever  conscious  of  a  dull  ache  at 
heart.  Clancy  had  gone  North  for  an  indefinite  absence, 
and  it  looked  as  if  their  separation  were  final.  In  vain  she 
assured  herself  that  it  was  best  that  they  should  not  meet 


A    NEW    SOLACE  77 

again  until  both  were  satisfied  that  their  paths  led  apart. 
She  knew  that  she  had  hoped  his  path  would  come  back 
to  hers — that  in  secret  she  hoped  this  still,  with  a  pathetic 
persistence  which  defied  all  efEort.     She  believed,  however, 
that  such  efiort  was  her  best  resource,  for  he  was  again 
under  the  influences   she  most  feared  and  detested.      At 
times  she  reproached  herself  for  having  been  too  reserved, 
too  proud  and  passionate  in  her  resentment  at  his  course. 
He  had  asked  her  to  convince  him  of  his  error  if  she  could, 
and  she  had  not  only  failed  to  make  such  efEort,  but  also 
had  denied  him  the  hope  that  would  have  been  more  than 
all  argument.     Thus,  at  variance  with  her  heart,  she  alter- 
nated between  the  two  extremes  of  anger  at  his  course  and 
regret  and  compunction  at  her  own.     As  a  rule,  though, 
her  resolute  will  enabled  her  to  concentrate  her  thoughts 
on  daily  occupations  and  immediate  interests,  and  it  became 
her  chief  aim  to  so  occupy  herself  with  these  interests  that 
no  time  should  be  left  for  thoughts  which  now  only  tended 
to  distress  and  discourage. 

Mara  was  a  girl  who  consciously  would  be  controlled  by 
a  few  simple  motives  rather  than  by  impulses,  circumstances 
or  the  influence  of  others.  We  have  seen  that  loyalty,  as  she 
understood  it,  was  her  chief  motive.  Her  love  for  parents 
she  had  never  seen  was  profound,  and  all  relating  to  them 
was  sacred.  To  do  what  she  believed  would  be  pleasing  to 
them,  what  would  now  reflect  honor  upon  their  memory, 
was  her  supreme  duty.  All  other  motives  would  be  domi- 
nated by  this  pre-eminent  one  and  all  action  guided  by  it. 
She  felt  that  the  efEort  to  provide  for  her  aunt,  the  one  re- 
maining member  of  her  family,  and  to  enable  her  to  spend 
her  remaining  days  in  the  congenial  atmosphere  of  the  past, 
would  certainly  be  in  accord  with  her  parents'  wishes.  Then 
by  natural  sequence  her  sympathies  went  out  to  those  whose 
fortunes,  like  her  own,  had  been  wrecked  by  the  changes 
against  which  they  could  interpose  only  a  helpless  protest. 
In  various  ways  she  learned  of  those  of  her  own  class  who 
had   been   disabled   and   impoverished,    whose    lives   were 


f8  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Stripped  of  the  embroidery  of  pleasant  little  gratifications 
only  permitted  by  a  surplus  of  income.  It  gradually  came 
to  be  a  cherished  solace  after  the  labors  of  the  morning,  to 
carry  to  the  sick  and  afflicted,  dwelling  in  homes  of  faded 
gentility  like  her  own,  some  delicacy  made  by  her  own 
hands.  While  these  were  received  in  the  spirit  in  which 
they  were  brought,  the  girl's  lovely,  sympathetic  face  was 
far  more  welcome,  and  the  orphan  began  to  embody  to  those 
of  the  old  regime  the  cause  for  which  they  all  had  suffered 
so  much.  Within  this  limited  circle  Mara  was  kindness  and 
gentleness  itself,  beyond  it  cold  and  unapproachable.  Occa- 
sionally some,  with  whom  she  had  no  sympathy,  sought  to 
patronize  her.  They  intimated  that  they  were  willing  to 
buy  lavishily,  but  it  was  also  evident  that  they  wished  their 
good-will  appeciated  and  reciprocated  in  ways  that  excited 
the  girl's  scorn.  In  spite  of  her  poverty  and  homely  work, 
it  was  known  that  she  was  a  favorite  in  the  most  aristocratic 
circle  in  the  city,  and  there  are  always  those  ready  to  seek 
social  recognition  in  many  and  devious  ways.  These  push- 
ing people  represented  to  Mara  the  Northern  element  and 
leaven  in  the  city,  and  she  soon  made  it  clear  that  there  was 
an  invisible  line  beyond  which  they  could  not  pass.  Their 
orders  were  either  declined  or  scrupulously  filled,  if  her 
time  permitted,  but  with  a  quiet  tact  which  was  inflexible 
she  warded  oj2  every  approach  which  was  not  purely 
commercial. 


MISS   AINSLEY  79 


CHAPTER  X 

MISSAINSLEY 

WHILE  in  New  York,  Owen  Clancy  had  been  kept 
informed  of  the  drift  of  those  events  in  which 
he  was  especially  interested.  While  Mara's  effort 
had  increased  his  admiration  for  her,  its  success  had  still 
further  discouraged  his  hope.  In  his  way  he  was  as  proud 
as  she  was.  He  had  committed  himself  to  a  totally  different 
line  of  action,  for  in  his  business  relations  he  had  been  led 
into  friendly  relations  with  many  Northern  people  in  both 
cities.  He  had  accepted  and  returned  their  hospitalities  in 
kind  as  far  as  it  was  possible  for  a  young  bachelor  of  mod- 
est means.  This  courtesy  had  been  expected  and  accepted 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  to  exchange  it  for  cold,  freezing 
politeness  limited  only  to  matters  of  trade,  would  not  only 
subject  him  to  ridicule  but  cut  short  his  business  career. 
Considerations  supreme  in  Mara's  circle  were  ignored  by 
the  great  world,  and,  having  once  felt  the  impulses  of  the 
large  currents  of  life,  it  would  be  impossible  for  Clancy  to 
withdraw  into  the  little  side  eddy  wherein  thought  was  ever 
turning  back  to  no  purpose.  Having  clasped  hands  and 
broken  bread  with  the  men  and  women  of  the  North,  he  felt 
that  he  could  not,  and  would  not  stultify  himself,  even  for 
the  sake  of  his  love,  by  any  change  toward  them.  They 
would  despise  him  not  only  as  a  miracle  of  narrowness  but 
also  as  an  insincere  man,  whose  courtesy  had  been  but  busi- 
ness policy,  easily  dropped  at  the  bidding  of  some  more 
pressing  interest. 

His  last  interview  with  Mara  had  depressed  him  exceed- 


80  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

ingly,  for  while  it  had  increased  his  love  it  had  also  revealed 
to  him  the  radical  divergence  in  their  views  and  made  it 
more  clear  that  he  could  only  hope  to  win  her  love  by  the 
sacrifice  of  self-respect.  He  must  cease  to  be  a  thinking, 
independent  man,  a  part  of  his  own  day  and  generation,  and 
fix  his  thoughts  upon  the  dead  issues  of  the  past.  *'The 
idea,"  he  would  mutter,  "of  sitting  down  and  listening  to 
Mrs.  Hunter's  inane  and  endless  lament."  He  could  not 
conform  to  Mara's  views  without  being  guilty  oE  hypocrisy 
also,  and  she  proved  her  narrowness  by  not  recognizing  this 
truth. 

After  all,  the  point  of  view  was  chiefly  the  cause  of  the 
trouble  between  them.  She  had  ever  dwelt  in  the  shaded 
valley;  he  had  been  on  the  mountain- top,  and  so  had  se- 
cured a  broad  range  of  vision.  He  had  come  into  contact 
with  the  great  forces  which  were  making  the  future  and  the 
men  of  the  future,  and  he  recognized  that  his  own  State  and 
his  own  people  must  be  vitalized  by  these  forces  or  else  be 
left  far  behind.  And  he  represented  a  large  and  increasing 
class  in  his  native  city.  In  birth  and  breeding  he  was  the 
peer  of  Mara  or  any  of  her  aristocratic  circle.  He  had  ad- 
mission to  the  best  society  in  the  State,  and,  if  looked  upon 
coldly  by  some,  it  was  for  the  same  reasons  which  actuated 
the  girl  for  whom  he  would  gladly  yield  everything  except 
his  principles  and  right  of  private  judgment. 

While  he  had  many  warm,  sympathetic  friends  he  felt 
that  the  old  should  give  way  to  the  new,  he  yet  ran  against 
the  prejudices  which  Mara  embodied  so  often  that  he  began 
to  feel  ill  at  ease  in  Charleston. 

He  thought  of  removing  permanently  to  cosmopolitan 
New  York  more  than  once  during  his  absence  North.  If 
he  should  be  fully  convinced  after  his  return  that  Mara  was 
lost  to  him,  unless  he  became  a  part  of  her  implacable  and 
reactionary  coterie,  it  might  be  better  for  his  peace  of  mind 
that  he  were  far  away. 

One  evening,  before  his  departure  home,  he  was  invited 
to  dine  with  a  gentleman  who  had  large  railroad  interests  in 


MISS    AINSLEY  81 

the  South.  Mr.  Ainsley  was  a  widower,  a  man  of  wealth, 
and  absorbed  in  the  pleasure  of  its  increase.  He  had  made 
a  business  acquaintance  with  Clancy,  and,  finding  him  un- 
usually intelligent  and  well  informed  in  regard  to  Southern 
matters,  naturally  wished  to  converse  more  at  length  with 
him.  The  cordial  invitation,  the  hearty  welcome  of  the 
Northern  capitalist  could  scarcely  fail  in  gratifying  the 
young  Southerner,  who  keenly  felt  the  importance  of  inter- 
esting just  such  men  as  his  host  m  the  enterprises  under 
consideration.  During  the  preliminary  talk  in  the  library 
of  his  palatial  home,  Mr.  Amsley  soon  discovered  that  his 
guest  was  not  only  well  informed  but  frank  and  honest  in 
statements,  giving  the  cons  as  well  as  the  pros,  in  spite  of 
an  evident  desire  to  secure  for  the  South  all  the  advantages 
possible. 

Before  going  to  the  dining-room.  Miss  Caroline,  his 
host's  only  daughter,  entered  the  library  and  was  pre- 
sented. Clancy  was  fairly  dazzled  by  her  remarkable 
beauty.  She  was  a  blonde  of  the  unusual  type  character- 
ized by  dark  eyes  and  golden  hair.  Naturally,  therefore, 
the  first  impression  of  beauty  was  vivid,  nor  was  it  ban- 
ished by  closer  observation.  As  she  presided  with  ease 
and  grace  at  her  father's  table,  Clancy  found  himself  fas- 
cinated as  he  had  never  been  before  by  a  stranger. 

Although  their  table-talk  lost  its  distinctively  business 
and  statistical  character,  Mr.  Ainsley  still  pursued  his  in- 
quiries in  a  broad,  general  way,  and  the  daughter  also  asked 
questions  in  regard  to  life  and  society  at  the  South  which 
indicated  a  personal  interest  on  her  part. 

At  last  she  said,  "Papa  thinks  it  quite  possible  that  we 
may  spend  some  time  in  your  region,  and  in  that  case 
we  should  probably  make  Charleston  our  headquarters. 
1  have  a  friend,  Mrs.  Willoughby— do  you  know  her?" 

"Yes,  indeed;  a  charming  lady.  She  resides  on  the 
Battery." 

"I'm  glad  you  know  her.  I  met  her  abroad,  and  we 
became  very  fond  of  each  other.     She  has  often  asked  me 


82  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

to  visit  her,  but  as  I  rarely  leave  Papa,  the  way  has  never 
opened." 

"My  daughter  is  very  good  in  accompanying  me  in  my 
various  business  expeditions,"  her  father  explained,  "and 
you  know  they  do  not  often  lead  to  fashionable  watering- 
places,  nor  can  they  always  be  adjusted  to  such  seasons  as 
I  could  desire.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  Charleston  at  an  early 
date,  but  in  view  of  other  interests,  I  cannot  tell  when  I  can 
get  away." 

"When  I  do  come,  I  shall  make  the  most  of  my  name 
and  insist  on  being  regarded  as  a  Carolinian,"  said  Miss 
Ainsley,  laughing. 

Clancy  was  pleased  with  the  conceit  and  the  delicate 
compliment  implied,  but  he  was  already  impressed  with  the 
idea  that  his  hostess  was  the  most  cosmopolitan  girl  that 
he  had  ever  met.  She  piqued  his  curiosity,  and  he  led  her 
to  talk  of  her  experiences  abroad.  Apparently  she  had 
been  as  much  at  home  in  Europe  as  in  America,  and  had 
been  received  in  the  highest  social  circles  everywhere. 
When  after  dinner  she  played  for  him  some  brilliant,  diffi- 
cult classical  music,  he  began  to  regard  her  a  perfect  flower 
of  metropolitan  culture.  Yet  she  perplexed  him.  She  re- 
vealed so  much  about  herself  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion, yet  at  the  same  time  seemed  to  veil  herself  com- 
pletely. He  and  her  father  could  broach  no  topic  of 
conversation  in  which  she  could  not  take  an  intelligent 
part.  Matters  of  European  policy  were  touched  upon,  and 
she  was  at  home  in  regard  to  them.  She  smiled  broadly 
when  he  tried  to  explain  to  her  father  that  patience  would 
still  be  required  with  the  South,  but  that  in  time  the  two 
parts  of  the  country  would  be  more  firmly  welded  together 
than  ever.  "Such  antipathies  amuse  me,"  she  said.  "It 
is  one  side  keeping  up  a  quarrel  which  the  other  has  for- 
gotten all  about." 

"The  circumstances  are  different.  Miss  Ainsley,"  Clancy 
replied.  "The  war  cost  me  my  father,  my  property,  and 
impoverished  my  State," 


MISS    AINSLEY 


83 


He  could  not  tell  whether  her  eyes  expressed  sympathy 
or  not,  for  they  had  beamed  on  him  with  a  soft  alluring  fire 
from  the  first,  but  her  father  spoke  up  warmly:  ''The  North 
has  not  forgotten,  especially  the  older  generation.  We  have 
not  suffered  materially  and  have  become  absorbed  in  new 
interests,  but  the  heart  of  the  North  was  wounded  as  truly 
as  that  of  the  South.  I  wish  to  assure  you,  Mr.  Clancy,  how 
deeply  1  sympathize  with  and  honor  your  spirit  of  concilia- 
tion. What  is  there  for  us  all  but  to  be  Americans?  Be- 
lieve me,  sir,  such  men  as  yourself  are  the  strength  and 
hope  of  your  section. 

"I  believe  with  you,  Mr.  Ainsley,  that  it  has  been  settled 
that  we  are  to  have  but  one  destiny  as  a  nation,  but  in  justice 
to  my  people  I  must  say  that  our  wounds  were  so  deep  and 
the  changes  involved  so  vast  that  it  is  but  reasonable  we 
should  recover  slowly.  You  may  say  that  we  committed 
errors  during  the  reconstruction  period,  yet  they  were 
errors  natural  to  a  conquered  people.  In  the  censure  we 
have  received  from  many  quarters  we  have  been  almost 
denied  the  right  to  our  common  human  nature.  Possibly 
the  North,  in  our  position  would  not  have  acted  very  differ- 
ently. But  the  past  is  past,  and  the  question  is  now,  what 
IS  right  and  wise  ?  I  know  that  I  represent  a  strong  and 
growing  sentiment  which  desires  the  unity  and  prosperity 
of  the  entire  country.  I  in  turn,  sir,  can  say  that  men  like 
yourself,  in  coming  among  us  and  investing  their  money  do 
more  than  all  politicians  in  increasing  this  sentiment.  It 
proves  that  you  trust  us;  and  trust  begets  trust  and  good 
feeling.  The  North,  however,  will  always  be  mistaken  if 
it  expects  us  to  denounce  our  fathers  or  cease  to  honor 
the  men   who  fought  and  prayed  for  what  they  believed 

was  right." 

"Suppose,  Mr.  Clancy,"  Miss  Amsley  asked,  with  mirth- 
ful eyes,  "that  a  party  in  the  South  had  the  power  to  array 
your  section  against  the  North  again,  would  you  go  with 

your  section?" 

"Oh,  come,  Carrie,  it  is  scarcely  fair  to  ask  tests  on  ut- 


84  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

terly  improbable  suppositions,"  said  her  father  laughing, 
yet  he  awaited  Clancy's  answer  with  interest. 

*'No,"  he  said  quietly,  ''not  with  the  light  I  now  pos- 
sess. I  would  have  done  so  five  years  ago.  Are  Northern 
young  men  so  intrinsically  wise  and  good  that  they  are  not 
influenced  by  their  traditions  and  immediate  associations?" 

''Mr.  Clancy,  where  are  your  eyes  ?  Go  to  the  Delmonico 
caf^  at  noon  to-morrow,  and  observe  the  flower  of  our  patri- 
cian youth  taking  their  breakfast.  You  will  see  beings  who 
are  intrinsically  what  they  are." 

"I  fear  we  are  rather  even  in  this  respect,"  said  Clancy, 
laughing.  "You  have  your  metropolitan  dudes  and  mani- 
kins, and  we  our  rural  ruffians,  slaves  of  prejudice,  who 
hate  progress,  schools  and  immigration,  as  they  do  soap  and 
water.  There  is  some  consideration  for  our  fellows,  how- 
ever, for  they  scarcely  know  any  better,  and  many  of  their 
characteristics  are  bred  in  the  bone.  It  would  almost  seem 
that  the  class  you  refer  to  are  fools  and  nonentities  from 
choice." 

"I  fear  not,"  she  said,  lifting  her  eyebrows.  "If  I  were 
a  medical  student  I  should  be  tempted  to  kill  one  of  them— 
it  wouldn't  be  murder — to  see  if  he  had  a  brain." 

"You  think  brain,  then,  is  absolutely  essential?' 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  could  endure  a  man  without  a  heart, 
but  not  if  he  were  a  fool.  If  a  man  is  not  capable  of  think- 
ing himself  into  what  is  sensible  he  is  a  poor  creature." 

Clancy  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  slight  protest  and  soon 
after  took  his  leave,  having  first  acquiesced  in  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Ainsley  at  his  office  in  the  morning. 

On  the  way  to  his  hotel  and  until  late  into  the  night, 
he  thought  over  his  experiences  of  the  evening.  Did  Miss 
Ainsley  intend  to  compliment  him  by  suggesting  that  he 
was  thinking  himself  into  what  was  sensible  ?  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  tell  what  she  intended  as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
"She  could  only  have  the  most  transient  interest  in  such 
a  stranger  as  I  am,"  he  reasoned,  "yet  her  eyes  were  like 
magnets.      They    both   fascinate   and   awaken   misgivings. 


MISS    AINSLEY  85 

Perhaps  they  are  the  means  by  which  she  discovers 
whether  a  raan  is  a  fool  or  not;  if  he  speedily  loses  his 
head  under  their  spells,  she  mentally  concludes,  weighs 
and  finds  wanting.  Probably,  however,  like  hosts  of  pretty 
women,  she  simply  enjoys  using  her  powers  and  seeing  men 
succumb;  and  men  not  forearmed  and  steeled  as  I  am,  might 
well  hesitate  to  see  her  often,  for  my  impression  is  right 
strong  that  she  has  more  brain  than  heart.  Yet  she  is  a 
dazzling  creature.  Jove,  what  a  contrast  to  Mara!  Yet 
there  is  a  nobility  and  womanly  sincerity  in  Mara's  expres- 
sion than  I  cannot  discover  in  Miss  Ainsley's  face.  How- 
ever wrong  Mara  may  be,  you  are  sure  she  is  sincere  and 
that  she  would  be  true  to  her  conscience  even  if  she  put  the 
whole  North  to  the  sword;  but  this  brilliant  girl — how  much 
conscience  and  heart  has  she  ?  Back  of  all  her  culture  and 
accomplishments  there  is  a  woman;  yet  what  kind  of  a 
woman  ?  Well,  the  prospects  are  that  I  may  have  a  chance 
to  find  out  when  she  comes  South.  One  thing  is  certain, 
she  will  not  discover  that  I  am  a  fool  by  speedily  kindling 
a  vain  sentiment.  Yet  I  would  like  to  find  her  out,  to  dis- 
cover the  moral  texture  of  her  being.  A  girl  like  Miss 
Ainsley  could  more  than  fulfil  a  man's  ideal  or  eJse  make 
his  life  a  terror." 

He  called  again  just  before  his  departure,  and  saw  her 
alone.  As  at  first,  she  appeared  to  veil  the  woman  in 
her  nature  completely,  while,  at  the  same  time,  the  mild 
lightning  of  her  eyes  played  about  him. 

Although  consciously  on  his  guard  he  found  himself 
fascinated  in  spite  of  himself  by  her  marvellous  beauty, 
and  his  curiosity  piqued  more  than  ever.  He  discovered 
that  her  range  of  reading  was  wide,  especially  in  modern 
European  literature,  and  he  was  charmed  by  her  broad, 
liberal  views.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  singularly  free 
from  egotism  that  he  was  so  conscious  of  her  fine  reticence 
which  took  the  mask  of  apparent  frankness.  Most  men 
would  have  been  flattered  by  her  seeming  interest  in  them 
and  willingness  to  listen  to  all  they  had  to  say  about  them- 


86  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

selves.  According  to  Clancy's  opinion,  conversation  should 
be  an  equal  interchange.  He  looked  direct  into  Miss  Ains- 
ley's  eyes.  They  bewildered  and  perplexed  him,  for  they 
appeared  to  gather  the  rays  of  some  light  he  did  not  under- 
stand and  focus  them  upon  himself.  He  wished  he  could 
see  her  in  the  society  of  other  men  and  could  learn  more  of 
her  antecedents  so  that  he  might  better  account  for  her,  but 
he  went  away  feeling  that  she  was  more  of  an  enigma  than 
ever. 

The  glamour  of  her  perplexmg  personality  was  upon  him 
during  much  of  his  journey,  but  as  he  approached  his  native 
city  thoughts  of  Mara  predominated.  Was  she  utterly  es- 
tranged, and  was  the  secret  of  her  coldness  due  to  the  truth 
that  he  had  never  had  any  real  hold  upon  her  heart  ?  If 
Mrs.  Hunter  had  not  so  harshly  interposed  at  the  critical 
moment  of  their  last  interview,  he  believed  that  he  would 
have  discovered  why  it  was  she  said  he  was  "breaking  her 
heart."  Was  it  because  he  charged  her  with  disloyalty  to 
her  kindred  ?  Or  had  his  own  course  which  she  felt  was 
separating  them  some  part  in  her  distress  ?  The  fact  that 
she  had  been  silent  to  his  last  appeal,  that  she  had  proved 
his  fears  in  regard  to  her  poverty  to  be  true,  yet  had  sought 
aid  from  such  an  unexpected  source,  rather  than  permit  him 
to  endow  her  with  his  love  and  all  that  it  involved,  forced 
him  to  the  miserable  conclusion  that  she  had  at  least  de- 
cided against  him. 

But  hope  dies  hard  in  a  lover's  breast.  He  longed  to  see 
her  again,  yet  how  could  he  see  her  except  in  the  presence 
of  others  ? 

He  knew  they  soon  would  meet;  he  was  determined  that 
they  should;  and  possibly  something  in  her  [^involuntary 
manner  or  expression  might  suggest  that  she  had  thought 
of  his  words  in  his  absence. 

She  had  thought  of  his  words  as  we  know,  but  she  had 
also  been  given  other  food  for  reflection  which  the  follow- 
ing chapter  will  reveal. 


TWO    QUESTIONS  87 


CHAPTER  XI 

TWO    QUESTIONS 

IN  the  division  of  labor  between  Mara  and  her  aunt,  the 
latter,  with  the  assistance  of  their  landlady's  daughter, 
tried  to  leave  the  young  girl  few  tasks  beyond  that  of 
filling  Aun'  Sheba's  basket. 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  also  expected  to  be  ready  to  receive 
callers,  and  excuse  Mara  during  the  morning  hours.  Under 
the  new  order  of  things,  more  people  dropped  in  than  in 
former  times,  for,  as  we  have  seen,  it  had  become  a  kindly 
fashion  to  show  good-will.  The  caller  on  a  certain  morning 
in  April  was  not  wholly  actuated  by  sympathy,  for  she  had 
news  which  she  believed  would  be  interesting  if  not  al- 
together agreeable.  Clancy's  attentions  had  not  been  un- 
known, and  he  had  at  first  suffered  in  the  estimation 
of  others  as  well  as  of  Aun'  Sheba,  because  of  his  apparent 
neglect.  The  impression,  however,  had  been  growing,  that 
Mara  had  withdrawn  her  favor  on  account  of  his  friendly 
relations  with  Northern  people  and  his  readiness  to  bury 
the  past.  The  morning  visitor  had  not  only  learned  of  a 
new  proof  of  his  objectionable  tendencies,  but  also — so  do 
stories  grow  as  they  travel — that  he  was  paying  attention 
to  a  New  York  belle  and  heiress.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  soon 
possessed  of  these  momentous  rumors,  and  when,  at  last, 
weary  from  her  morning  labors,  Mara  sat  down  to  their 
simple  dinner,  she  saw  that  her  aunt  was  preternaturally 
solemn  and  dignified.  The  girl  expressed  no  curiosity,  for 
she  knew  that  whatever  burdened  her  aunt's  mind  would 
soon  be  revealed  with  endless  detail  and  comment. 

''Well,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Hunter  at  last,    "my  impres- 


88  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

sions  concerning  people  are  usually  correct,  and  it  is  well 
for  you  that  they  are.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me  you  might 
have  become  entangled  in  association  with  a  man  false  and 
disloyal  in  all  respects.  I  say  entangled  in  association,  re- 
sulting from  a  moment  of  weakness,  for  assuredly  the  in- 
stant you  gained  self-possession  and  had  time  for  thought, 
you  would  have  repudiated  everything.  I  saved  you  from 
the  embarrassment  of  all  this,  and  now  you  can  realize  how 
important  was  the  service  I  rendered.  I  have  heard  of  the 
performances  of  Mr.  Clancy  at  the  North." 

The  hot  flush  on  Mara's  cheeks  followed  by  pallor  proved 
that  her  indifference  had  been  thoroughly  banished,  but  she 
only  looked  at  her  aunt  like  one  ready  for  a  blow. 

"Yes,"  resumed  Mrs.  Hunter,  ''the  story  has  come  very 
straight— straight  from  that  young  Mrs.  Willoughby,  who, 
with  her  husband,  seems  as  ready  to  forget  and  condone  all 
that  the  South  has  suffered  as  your  devoted  admirer  him- 
self. Devoted  indeed  I  He  is  now  paying  his  devotions  at 
another  shrine.  A  Northern  girl  with  her  Northern  gold  is 
the  next  and  natural  step  in  his  career,  and  he  said  to  her 
pointblank  that  if  the  South  again  sought  to  regain  her  lib- 
erty, he  would  not  help.  He  wasn't  a  Samson,  but  he  was 
not  long  in  being  shorn  by  a  Northern  Delilah  of  what  little 
strength  he  had." 

"How  do  you  know  that  this  is  true  ?"  asked  Mara  rigid, 
with  suppressed  feeling. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Willoughby  must  talk  if  the  heavens  fell.  It 
seems  that  she  met  this  Northern  girl  abroad,  and  that  they 
have  become  great  friends.  She  has  received  a  letter,  and 
it  is  quite  probable  that  this  girl  will  come  here.  It  would 
be  just  like  her  to  follow  up  her  new  admirer.  Mrs.  Will- 
oughby is  so  hot  in  her  advocacy  of  what  she  terms  the  'New 
South,'  that  she  must  speak  of  everything  which  seems  to 
favor  her  pestilential  ideas.  By  birth  she  belongs  to  the 
Old  South  and  the  only  true  South,  and  she  tries  to  keep  in 
with  it,  but  she  is  getting  the  cold  shoulder  from  more  than 
one." 


TWO    QUESTIONS  89 

Mara  said  nothing,  but  her  brow  contracted. 

"You  take  it  very  quietly,"  remarked  her  aunt  severely. 

"Yes,"  said  Mara. 

"Well,  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  would  be  on  fire  with 
indignation." 

"Perhaps  I  would  be  if  I  did  not  care  very  much,"  was 
the  girl's  constrained  answer. 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  can  care  except  as  I  do." 

"You  are  you,  aunty,  and  1  am  myself.  People  are  not 
all  made  exactly  alike." 

*'But  a  girl  should  have  some  self-respect." 

"Yes,  aunty,  and  she  should  be  respected.  1  am  one  to 
show  my  self-respect  by  deeds,  not  words.  You  must  not 
lecture  me  any  more  now  as  if  I  were  a  child,"  and  she  rose 
and  left  her  almost  untasted  dinner. 

A  little  thought  soon  satisfied  Mrs.  Hunter  that  the  iron 
had  entered  deep  into  the  soul  of  her  niece,  and  that  her 
deeds  would  be  satisfactory.  She  therefore  finished  her 
dinner  complacently. 

Mara  felt  that  she  had  obtained  a  test  which  might  justly 
compel  the  giving  up  of  her  dream  of  love  forever.  She 
was  endowed  with  a  simplicity  and  sincerity  of  mind  which 
prompted  to  definite  actions  and  conclusions,  rather  than  to 
the  tumultuous  emotions  of  anger,  jealousy  and  doubt.  She 
would  not  doubt;  she  would  know.  Either  Clancy  had  been 
misrepresented  or  he  had  not  been,  and  he  had  seemed  so 
true  and  frank  in  his  words  to  her  that  she  would  not  con- 
demn him  on  the  story  of  a  gossip.  From  her  point  of  view 
she  concluded  that  if  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say  to  a  North- 
ern girl  that  he  would  not  join  the  South  in  an  eSort  to 
achieve  independence,  supposing  such  an  attempt  to  be 
made,  then  he  had  passed  beyond  the  pale  of  even  her  se- 
cret sympathy  and  regard,  no  matter  what  the  girl  might 
become  to  him.  She  scarcely  even  hoped  that  there  would 
ever  be  a  chance  for  him  to  make  such  a  choice  of  sides  as 
his  reputed  words  indicated,  but  he  could  contemplate  the 
possibility,  and  if  he  could  even  think,  in  such  an  imagined 


90  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

exigency,  of  remaining  aloof  from  the  cause  for  which  his 
and  her  own  father  had  died,  then  he  would  be  dismissed 
from  her  thoughts  as  utterly  unworthy. 

So  she  believed  during  the  unhappy  hours  of  the  after- 
noon which  were  robbed  of  all  power  to  bring  rest.  She 
determined,  if  it  were  possible,  to  hear  the  truth  from  his 
own  lips.  She  would  subdue  her  heart  by  giving  it  proof 
positive  that  he  had  either  drifted  or  had  been  lured  far 
away.  If  this  were  true— and  she  would  not  be  influenced 
by  her  aunt's  bitter  prejudice— then  it  was  all  over  between 
them.  If  once  so  completely  convinced  that  he  did  not  love 
her  sufficiently  to  give  up  his  Northern  affiliations  for  her 
sake,  her   very   pride   would   cast   out   her   own   stubborn 

love. 

The  opportunity  to  accomplish  all  she  desired  soon  oc- 
curred, for  later  she  met  him  at  a  house  where  a  few  guests 
had  been  invited  to  spend  the  evening.  Social  life  had 
ceased  to  divide  sharply  upon  the  opinions  held  by  differ- 
ent persons,  and  the  question  as  to  what  guests  should  be 
brought  together  had  been  decided  by  the  hostess  chiefly  on 
the  ground  of  birth  and  former  associations.  On  this  occa- 
sion when  Clancy's  eyes  met  those  of  Mara,  he  bowed,  and 
was  about  to  cross  the  room  in  the  hope  of  receiving  some- 
thing like  a  welcome  after  his  absence,  but  he  was  repelled 
at  once  and  chilled  by  her  cold,  slight  bow,  and  her  prompt 
return  of  attention  to  the  gentleman  with  whom  she  was 
conversing. 

Clancy  was  so  hurt  and  perturbed  that  he  was  capable  of 
but  indifferent  success  in  his  efforts  to  maintain  conversa- 
tion with  others.  When  supper  was  served  he  strayed  into 
the  deserted  library  and  made  a  pretence  of  looking  at  some 
engravings.  A  dear  and  familiar  voice  brought  a  sudden 
flush  to  his  face,  but  the  words,  ''Mr.  Clancy,  I  wish  to 
speak  with  you,"  were  spoken  so  coldly  that  he  only  turned 
and  bowed  deferentially  and  then  offered  Mara  a  chair. 

She  paid  no  attention  to  this  act,  and  hesitated  a  moment 
in  visible  embarrassment  before  proceeding. 


TWO    QUESTIONS  91 

"Miss  Wallingford,"  he  began  eagerly,  "I  have  longed 
and  hoped — " 

She  checked  him  by  a  gesture  as  she  said,  "Perhaps  I 
would  better  speak  first.  I  have  a  question  to  ask.  You 
need  not  answer  it  of  course  if  you  do  not  wish  to.  I  am 
not  conventional  in  seeking  this  brief  interview.  Indeed," 
she  added  a  little  bitterly,  "my  life  has  ceased  to  be  conven- 
tional m  any  sense,  and  I  have  chosen  to  conform  to  a  few 
simple  verities  and  necessities.  As  you  once  said  to  me, 
you  and  I  have  been  friends,  and,  if  I  can  trust  your  words, 
you  have  meant  kindly  by  me — " 

"Miss  Wallingford,  can  you  doubt  my  words,"  he  began 
in  low,  passionate  utterance,  "can  you  doubt  what  I  mean 
and  have  meant?     You  know  I — " 

Her  brow  had  darkened  with  anger,  and  she  interrupted 
him,  saying,  "You  surely  cannot  think  I  have  sought  this 
interview  in  the  expectation  of  listening  to  such  words  and 
tones.  I  have  come  because  I  wish  to  be  just,  because  I 
will  not  think  ill  of  you  unless  I  must,  because  I  wish  you 
to  know  where  I  stand  immovably.  If  my  friendship  is 
worth  anything  you  will  seek  it  by  deeds,  not  words.  I 
now  only  wish  to  ask  if  you  said  in  effect,  while  North, 
that  if  the  South  should  again  engage  in  a  struggle  for 
freedom  you  would  not  help?" 

Clancy  was  astounded,  and  exclaimed,  "Miss  Walling- 
ford, can  you  even  contemplate  such  a  thing?" 

Her  face  softened  as  she  said,  "I  knew  that  you  could 
never  have  said  anything  of  the  kind." 

How  tremendous  was  the  temptation  of  that  moment! 
He  saw  the  whole  truth  instantaneously,  that  she  was  lost 
to  him  unless  he  came  unreservedly  to  her  position.  In 
that  brief  moment  her  face  had  become  an  exquisite  trans- 
parency illumined  with  an  assurance  of  hope.  He  had  an 
instinctive  conviction  that  even  if  he  admitted  that  he  had 
spoken  the  words,  yet  would  add,  "Mara,  I  am  won  at  last 
to  accept  your  view  of  right  and  duty,"  all  obstacles  be- 
tween them  would  speedily  melt  away. 


92  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

The  temptation  grappled  his  heart  with  all  the  power  of 
human  love,  and  there  was  an  instant  of  hesitation  that  was 
human  also,  and  then  conscience  and  manhood  asserted 
themselves.  With  the  dignity  of  conscious  victory  he  said 
gravely,  "Miss  Wallingford,  I  have  ever  treated  your  con- 
victions with  respect  even  when  I  differed  with  you  most. 
I  have  an  equal  right  to  my  own  convictions.  I  should  be 
but  the  shadow  of  a  man  if  I  had  no  beliefs  of  my  own. 
You  misunderstand  me.  My  first  thought  as  you  spoke  was 
surprise  that  you  could  even  contemplate  such  a  thing  as  a 
renewed  struggle  between  the  North  and  the  South." 

"Certainly  I  could  contemplate  it,  sir,  though  I  can 
scarcely  hope  for  it." 

"I  trust  not;  and  even  at  the  loss  of  what  I  value  far 
more  than  you  can  ever  know,  I  will  not  be  false  to  myself 
nor  to  you.  1  did  speak  such  words,  and  I  must  confirm 
them  now." 

She  bowed  frigidly  and  was  turning  away  when  he  said, 
"I,  too,  perhaps  have  the  right  to  ask  a  question." 

She  paused  with  averted  face.  "Can  you  not  at  least 
respect  a  man  who  is  as  sincere  as  you  are  ?" 

Again  the  vigilant  Mrs.  Hunter,  uneasy  that  Mara  and 
Clancy  were  not  within  the  range  of  her  vision,  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  She  glared  a  moment  at  the  young  man, 
and  Mara  left  the  room  without  answering  him. 


A    "  TABULATION''  93 


CHAPTER  XII 


A     "  'f  AB  U  L  ATION" 


IT  had  been  Mara's  belief,  indeed  almost  her  hope,  that  if 
truth  compelled  Clancy  to  admit  that  he  had  spoken 
the  obnoxious  words  he  would  become  to  her  as  a 
"heathen  man  and  a  publican."  No  matter  how  much 
she  might  suffer,  she  had  felt  that  such  proof  of  utter  lack 
of  sympathy  with  her  and  all  the  motives  which  should  con- 
trol him,  would  simplify  her  course  and  render  it  much 
easier,  for  she  had  thought  that  her  whole  nature  would 
rise  in  arms  against  him.  It  would  end  all  compunction, 
quench  hope  and  even  deal  a  fatal  blow  to  love  itself.  She 
would  not  only  see  it  her  duty  to  banish  him  from  her 
thoughts,  but  had  scarcely  thought  it  possible  that  he  could 
continue  to  dwell  in  them. 

The  result  had  not  justified  her  expectations,  and  she 
was  baffled,  exasperated  and  torn  by  conflicting  feelings. 
Although  he  had  admitted  the  words  and  confirmed  them 
to  her  very  face,  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  be  put  in  a 
position  which  enabled  her  to  turn  coldly  and  contemptu- 
ously away.  Brief  as  had  been  the  interview,  he  had  made 
it  impossible  for  her  to  doubt  two  things;  first,  that  the 
Northern  girl  was  nothing  to  him  and  that  he  had  not 
spoken  the  words  to  win  her  favor,  for  he  had  come  back 
to  herself  with  the  same  love  in  his  eyes  and  the  same  readi- 
ness to  give  it  expression  despite  her  coldness  and  even 
harshness.  No  matter  how  bitterly  she  condemned  herself, 
this  truth  thrilled  and  warmed  her  very  soul.  In  the  sec- 
ond place,  however  mistaken   he  might  be,    he  had  com- 


94  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

pelled  her  to  believe  him  to  be  sincere,  so  loyal,  indeed,  to 
his  own  sense  of  right  that  not  even  for  her  sake  would  he 
yield.  She  could  not  doubt  this  as  the  eagerness  of  the 
lover  passed  into  the  grave  dignity  and  firmness  of  a  self- 
respecting  man.  Moreover,  another  truth  had  been  thrust 
upon  her  consciousness — that  she  was  more  woman  than 
partisan.  As  he  had  stood  before  her,  revealing  his  love 
and  constancy  and  at  the  same  time  asserting  his  right  to 
think  and  act  in  accordance  with  his  own  convictions,  he 
had  appeared  noble,  handsome,  manly;  her  heart  acknowl- 
edged him  master,  and  however  vigilantly  she  might  con- 
ceal the  fact,  she  could  not  deny  it  to  herself. 

Nevertheless,  his  course  had  simplified  her  action;  it 
had  decided  her  that  all  was  over  between  them.  The  case 
was  hopeless  now;  for  neither  could  yield  without  becom- 
ing untrue  to  themselves,  and  there  could  be  no  happy 
union  in  such  radical  diversity.  The  less  often  they  met 
the  better,  as  he  only  made  her  course  the  harder  to  main- 
tain and  the  separation  more  painful  than  it  had  been  before. 

She  might  hide  her  unhappiness,  but  she  could  not  ban- 
ish the  resulting  despondency  and  flagging  strength.  Her 
aunt  had  half  forced  an  explanation  of  the  reason  why  she 
was  alone  with  Clancy,  and,  in  hasty  self-defence,  she  ad- 
mitted a  resolve  to  know  with  certainty  whether  he  had 
spoken  the  words  charged  against  him.  When  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter learned  that  he  had  acknowledged  the  truth  of  the  story, 
she  spoke  of  him  with  redoubled  bitterness,  making  it  hard 
indeed  for  Mara  to  listen,  for  her  heart  took  his  side  almost 
passionately.  Unintentionally  Mrs.  Hunter  proved  herself 
the  young  man's  best  ally,  yet  Mara  outwardly  was  com- 
pelled to  acquiesce,  for  she  herself  had  proved  the  enormity 
which  was  to  end  everything.  Consistency,  however,  was 
torn  to  tatters  one  day,  and  she  said  in  sudden  passion, 
"Aunty,  never  mention  Mr.  Clancy's  name  again.  I  de- 
mand this  as  my  right." 

When  Mara  spoke  in  this  manner  Mrs.  Hunter  yielded. 
Indeed  she  was  not  a  little  perplexed  over  the  girl  who  had 


A    "TABULATION"  95 

been  so  passive  and  subservient.  She  was  not  a  profound 
reasoner  upon  any  subject,  nor  could  she  understand  how 
one  step,  even  though  Mara  had  been  driven  to  it  by  hard 
necessity,  led  to  many  others.  The  girl  had  begun  to  assert 
her  individual  life,  and  her  nature,  once  awakened,  was 
proving  a  strong  one.  Deepening  and  widening  experience 
perplexed  and  troubled  her  unguided  mind,  and  prepared 
the  way  for  doubtful  experiments. 

As  before,  Aun'  Sheba  was  quick  to  discover  that  all 
was  not  well  with  Mara,  but  believed  that  she,  like  herself, 
was  working  beyond  her  strength.  The  old  woman  had  a 
bad  cold  and  was  feeling  "rudder  po'ly''  one  evening  when 
her  minister  came  to  pay  a  pastoral  visit. 

On  so  momentous  an  occasion  as  this,  her  son-in-law 
Kern  Watson  and  his  wife  and  children  were  summoned; 
a  few  neighbors  also  dropped  in  as  they  often  did,  for  Aun' 
Sheba  was  better  in  their  estimation  than  any  newspaper  in 
town.  Since  the  necessity  for  much  baking  had  been  re- 
moved, she  had  hired  out  her  stove  in  order  to  make  more 
room  and  to  enjoy  the  genial  fire  of  the  hearth.  So  far  from 
being  embarrassed  because  her  head  was  tied  up  in  red  flan- 
nel, she  had  the  complacent  consciousness  that  she  was  the 
social  centre  of  the  group,  an  object  of  sympathy  and  the 
respected  patron  of  all  present. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Birdsall,  the  minister,  treated  Aun' 
Sheba  with  much  consideration;  he  justly  regarded  her  as 
one  of  the  "pillars  of  the  church,"'  knowing  well  from  long 
experience  that  she  abounded  in  liberality  if  not  in  long 
prayers  and  contentions.  He  was  a  plain,  sincere,  positive 
man  who  preached  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth.  If  he 
was  sometimes  beyond  it,  beneath  it  or  away  from  it  alto- 
gether, he  was  as  serenely  unconscious  of  the  fact  as  were 
his  hearers.  There  was  no  agnosticism  in  his  congregation, 
for  he  laid  down  the  law  and  the  gospel  in  a  way  that  dis- 
couraged theological  speculation.  Nevertheless,  among  his 
followers  there'  were  controversial  spirits  who  never  doubted 
that  they  were  right,  however  much  they  might  question  his 


96  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

ecclesiastical  methods  and  views.  To  many,  freedom  meant 
the  right  to  have  their  saj,  and,  as  is  often  true,  those  hav- 
ing the  least  weighty  matter  on  their  minds  were  the  most 
ready  to  volunteer  opinions  and  advice.  Aun'  Sheba  was  a 
doer,  not  a  talker,  in  her  church  relations.  If  she  occasion- 
ally dozed  a  little  in  her  pew  during  the  sermon,  she  was 
always  wide  awake  when  the  plate  was  passed  around;  and 
if  a  "brother"  or  a  "sister"  were  sick  she  found  time  for  a 
visit,  nor  did  she  go  empty-handed.  If  it  were  a  case  of 
back-slidiDg  she  had  a  homely  way  of  talking  sense  to  the 
delinquent  that  savored  a  little  of  worldly  wisdom.  There 
were  not  a  few  who  shared  in  her  doubt  whether  she  was 
"  'ligious"  or  not,  but  the  Heverend  Mr.  Birdsall  was  not 
of  these.  He  would  only  have  been  too  glad  to  have  discov- 
ered more  religion  like  hers. 

"Mis'  Buggone,"  he  said,  sympathetically,  after  Aun' 
Sheba  had  given  her  symptoms  with  mach  detail,  "in  you 
is  a  case  whar  de  spirit  is  willin'  but  de  flesh  is  weak. 
You'se  been  a-goin'  beyon'  you  strengt. " 

"Yes,  Elder,  dat  is  de  gist  ob  de  whole  business," 
affirmed  Kern  Watson.  "Moder's  tromped  de  streets  wid 
her  big  basket  till  she  is  dun  beat  out.  She's  undertook 
mo'n  her  share  an'  is  s'portin'  too  many  people." 

"Kern,  you  means  well,"  said  Aun'  Sheba  with  dignity, 
"but  you  mus'  not  'fleet  on  young  Missy.  She  am  de  las' 
one  in  de  worl'  to  let  a  body  s'port  her  while  she  fol'  her 
ban's.  She's  po'iy  too,  jes'  kase  she's  a  workin'  harde'n 
me." 

Uncle  Sheba  hitched  uneasily  in  his  chair,  feeling  that 
the  conversation  rather  reflected  on  him,  and  he  was  con- 
scious that  old  Tobe,  keeper  of  the  "rasteran,"  was  glaring 
at  him.  "I  reckin,"  he  said,  "dat  de  min'ster  might  offer 
a  word  ob  prar  an'  comfort  fore  he  go." 

"  What  pressin'  business,"  asked  his  wife,  severely,  "hab 
you  got,  Unc,  dat  you  in  sech  a  hurry  fer  de  min'ster  ter 
go?  We  ain't  into  de  shank  ob  de  ebenin'  yet,  an'  dar's  no 
'casion  to  talk  'bout  folks  goin'." 


A    ''TABULATION''  97 

"I  dun  said  nothin'  'bout  folks  goin',"  complained  Uncle 
Sheba  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  "I  was  ony  a  suggestin'  wot  'ud 
be  'propriate  ter  de  'casion /ore  dej  go." 

"Mr.  Buggone  is  right,  and  prar  is  always  'propriate," 
said  Mr.  Birdsall  in  order  to  preserve  the  serenity  of  the 
occasion.  ''Before  this  little  company  breaks  up  we  will 
sing  a  hymn  and  hab  a  word  ob  prar.  But  we  mus'  use  de 
right  means  in  dis  worl'  an'  conform  ter  de  inexorable  law 
ob  de  universe.  Here's  de  law  and  dar's  de  gospel,  and  dey 
both  have  dar  place.  If  a  brick  blow  off  a  chimley  it  alus 
falls  ter  de  groun'.  Dat's  one  kin'  ob  law.  Water  runs 
down  hill,  dat's  much  de  same  kin'  ob  law.  If  a  man 
hangs  roun'  a  saloon  an'  wastes  his  time  an'  money,  he's 
boun'  to  git  seedy  an'  ragged  an'  a  bad  name,  an'  his  fam'ly 
gets  po'  an'  mis'ble;  dat's  another  kin'  ob  law— no  'scapin' 
It.  He's  jest  as  sure  ter  run  down  hill  as  de  water.  Den  if 
we  git  a  cut  or  a  burn  or  a  bruise  we  hab  pain;  dat's  anuder 
kin'  ob  law,  an'  we  all  know  it's  true.  But  dar's  a  heap  ob 
good  people.  Mis'  Buggone,  who  think  dey  can  run  dis  po' 
machine  ob  a  body  in  a  way  dat  would  wear  out  wrong ht- 
iron,  and  den  pray  de  good  Lawd  ter  keep  it  strong  and  iled 
and  right  up  to  the  top-notch  ob  po'r.  Now  dat's  against 
both  law  and  gospel,  for  eben  He  who  took  de  big  contrac' 
ter  save  the  worl'  said  ter  his  disciples,  'come  ye  yourselves 
apart  and  rest  a  while.'  I  reckon  dat's  de  law  and  de  gos- 
pel for  you.  Mis'  Buggone,  about  dis  time."  Nods  of 
approval  were  general,  and  Kern  Watson  gave  the  sense 
of  the  meeting  in  his  hearty  way. 

"  'Deed  it  am.  Elder,"  he  said.  'Tou'se  hit  de  nail 
squar  on  de  head.  Own  up,  now,  moder,  dai  you'se  neber 
been  preached  at  mo'  convincin'.  Hi!  wot  a  book  dat  Bible 
am!     It's  got  a  word  in  season  fer  ebry  'casion." 

"Well,"  said  Ann'  Sheba,  meditatively,  "I  wants  ter  be 
open  ter  de  truf ,  an'  I  does  own  up,  Kern,  dat  de  Elder  puts 
It  monstis  peart  an'  bery  conwincin'.  But,"  she  continued 
argumentatively,  laying  the  forefinger  of  her  left  hand  on 
the  broad  palm  of  her  right,  "dars  gen'ly  two  sides  to  a 

E— Roe— XV 


98  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

question.  Dat's  whar  folks  git  trip  up  so  of'n — dey  sees 
ony  one  side.  I've  'served  dat  it's  po'ful  easy  fer  folks  ter 
tell  oder  folks  wat  ter  do  and  wat  not  ter  do.  No  'fence, 
Elder.  You  been  doin'  you  duty,  but  you'se  been  layin' 
down  rudder  'stended  princ'ples.  I  know  you'se  got  ter 
preach  broad  an'  ter  lay  down  de  truf  fer  de  hull  winyard, 
but  I  wants  ter  know  wat  ter  do  wid  my  own  little  patch  ob 
ground.  Now  here's  me  and  d>ar's  my  young  Missy  'pendin' 
on  me. ' ' 

"Dat's  whar  I  jes'  doesn't  'gree  wid  Aun'  Sheba, "  put 
in  her  husband  as  she  paused  a  moment  for  breath.  He  felt 
that  public  opinion  was  veering  over  to  his  side  and  might 
be  employed  to  enforce  his  views.  "It  is  all  bery  well  fer 
one  ter  do  all  dey  can  'sistently  fer  oders,  but — " 

"Mr.  Buggone,"  remarked  Aun'  Sheba  sternly. 

Uncle  Sheba  subsided,  and  she  went  on,  "Dere  s  my 
young  Missy  dat's  pendin'  on  me,  but  she  ain't  pendin'  iu 
de  sense  ob  hangin'  on  me,"  and  she  paused  and  looked 
impressively  at  Unc.  "She's  usin'  her  two  little  ban's  jest 
as  hard  as  she  know  how,  an'  a  heap  too  hard.  Wat's  mo' 
she's  usin'  dem  to  good  puppus.  I  jes'  declar'  to  you,  Elder 
an'  frens,  dat  since  she  took  hole,  de  business  am  roUin'  up 
an'  it  gettin'  too  big  fer  both  ob  us.  Dat's  whar  de  shoe 
pinches.  I  ain't  loss  notin'.  I'se  made  a  heap  mo'  by 
doin'  fer  young  Missy.  In  dis  'fabulation,  I  doesn't  want 
no  'flections  on  her,  kase  dey  wouldn't  be  fair.  Now,  Kern, 
you'se  right  smart.  You'se  had  my  'proval  eber  sence  you 
took  a  shine  ter  Sissy.  Ud  you  belebe  it.  Elder  and  frens, 
dat  son-in-law  ob  mine  offered  ter  s'port  me  an'  me  do  nuffin 
but  jes'  help  Sissy  and  look  arter  de  chil'n.  But  dat  ain't 
my  way.  I  likes  ter  put  my  own  money  in  my  own  pocket 
an'  1  likes  ter  take  it  out  agin,  an'  it  jes'  warm  my  heart 
like  a  hick'y  fiah  ter  help  dat  honey  lam'  ob  mine  dat  I 
nussed.  So  you  see,  Elder,  dat  gen'l  preachin'  am  like 
meal.  Folks  has  got  ter  take  it  an'  make  out  ob  it  a  little 
hoe-cake  fer  dere  selves.     It's  de  same  ole  meal,  but  we's 


A    ''TAB  ULATION  *  ^9 

aot  ter  hab  it  in  a  shape  dat   'plies  ter  our  own  inards, 
sperital  and  bodily." 

Ao-ain  there  were  nods  of  assent  and  sounds  of  approval 
which  old  Tobe  put  into  words.  ''Aun'  Sheba,"  he  said, 
''you  puts  you'se  'pinions  monst'us  peart,  too.  I'se  an  ole 
man  an'  has  had  my  shar  ob  'sperence,  an'  I'se  alus  'served 
dat  de  hitch  come  in  at  de  'plyin'  part.  Dere's  a  sight  ob 
preachin'  dat  soun'  as  true  an'  straight  as  dat  de  sun  an' 
rain  make  de  cotton  grow,  but  when  you  git  down  to  de 
berry  indewidooel  cotton  plant  dere's  of  en  de  debil  to  pay 
in  one  shape  or  oder.  Dere's  a  wum  at  de  root  or  a  wum  in 
de  leaves,  or  dey's  too  much  rain  or  too  much  sun,  or  de 
site's  like  a  beef  bone  dat's  been  biled  fer  soup  mo'  dan's 
reasonable.  Now  Aun'  Sheba' s  de  indewidooel  cotton- 
plant  we's  a-'siderin',  an'  I  doan  see  how  she's  gwine  to 
res'  a  while  any  mo'n  I  kin.  Ef  I  shet  up  my  rasteran 
de  business  gwine  ter  drap  o2  ter  some  oder  rasteran." 

''But,  bruder  Tobe,  isn't  it  better,  even  as  you  put  it," 
protested  the  minister,  ''dat  Mis  Buggone's  business  should 
drop  off  an'  yours  too,  dan  dat  you  should  drop  off  youselves  ? 
Howsumever,  I  see  de  force  ob  what  you  both  say,  and  we 
mus'  try  ter  hit  upon  a  golden  mean.  I  reckon  dar's  a  way 
by  which  you  can  both  keep  your  business  and  yet  keep 
youselves  from  goin'  beyon'  your  'bility.  You  are  both 
useful  citizens  and  supporters  ob  de  gospel,  and  Tm  con- 
cerned fer  your  welfare,  bodily  as  well  as  sperital." 

''Aun'  Sheba,"  said  her  daughter,  "you'se  my  moder 
an'  I  ought  ter  be  de  fust  one  ter  help  ease  you  up.  I  just 
dun  declar  dat  you'se  got  ter  take  Vilet  ter  help  you  up.  I 
kin  spar  her,  an'  I  will  spar  her.  She's  strong  an'  gwine  on 
twelve,  an'  de  babies  is  gitten  so  dat  dey  ain't  aroun'  under 
my  feet  all  de  time.  Vilet' s  spry  an'  kin  run  here  an'  dar 
an'  fill  de  orders.     She'd  ease  you  up  right  smart." 

"Now,  Sissy,"  said  her  husband,  who  always  called  her 
by  the  old  household  name,  "dat's  bery  sens' ble  and  child- 
like  in  you  to  put  yousef  out  fer  you'se  muder.  I'd  been 
tinkin'  'bout  Vilet,  but  I  didn't  like  de  suggestin  ob  her 


100  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

leabin'  you  to  do  so  much  ob  de  work.  But  go  ahead, 
Sissy;  go  ahead,  Vilet,  an'  you'll  fin'  me  easy  goin'  at  meal 
times." 

"Come  here,  Vilet,"  said  the  minister. 

The  girl  had  been  sitting  on  the  floor  at  Aun'  Sheba's 
feet,  listening  quietly  and  intelligently  to  all  that  had  been 
said.  She  was  tall  for  her  age,  and  had  the  quiet  steadfast- 
ness of  gaze  that  was  characteristic  of  her  father.  He  was 
exceedingly  fond  and  proud  of  her,  for,  with  very  little 
schooling,  she  had  learned  to  read  and  write.  Even  as  a 
child  she  had  much  of  his  patience  and  unselfishness,  thus 
making  herself  very  useful  at  home.  She  looked  unshrink- 
ingly at  the  minister,  but  trembled  slightly,  for  she  felt  all 
eyes  were  upon  her. 

"Vilet,"  began  Mr.  Birdsall,  "you  are  said  to  be  a  good 
chile,  an'  I  like  the  sens' ble,  quiet  way  in  which  you  stan' 
up  an'  look  me  in  de  face.  I  reckon  dar  ain't  much  foolish- 
ness in  you.  Your  fader  and  moder  hab  shown  de  right 
spirit,  de  self-denying  spirit  dat  de  Lawd  will  bless.  Can 
you  say  the  fifth  commandment,  chile?"  Vilet  repeated 
it  promptly. 

"Dat's  right.  Now  your  fader  an'  moder  are  honabing 
dar  moder,  an'  you  are  gom'  to  hab  a  chance  ter  honah  dem 
an'  your  granma,  too.  You  will  hab  temptations  in  de 
streets  ter  be  pert  an'  idle,  ter  stop  an'  talk  to  dis  one  and 
ter  answer  back  to  dat  one  in  a  way  you  shouldn't.  But  if 
you  go  along  quiet  an'  steady,  an'  do  what  you're  tole,  an' 
be  car'ful  'bout  de  money  an'  de  messages  an'  de  orders 
an'  so  forth,  you  will  reflect  honah  on  us  all  an'  'specially 
on  all  your  folks.     You  understan',  Vilet?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  minister  put  his  hand  on  her  heaa,  and  said  sol- 
emnly, "You  have  my  blessin',  Vilet." 

She  ducked  a  little  courtesy,  and  again  squatted  at  the 
feet  of  Aun'  Sheba,  who,  much  affected,  was  wiping  her 
eyes  with  her  apron,  while  Sissy's  emotion  was  audible. 

"Now,  frens,"  resumed  Mr.  Birdsall,  "this  'mergency  of 


A    '''FABULATION"*  101 

Mis  Buggone's  health  has  been  met  in  de  right  human  and 

Scriptural  spirit.     Frens  and  fam'ly  hab  gathered  'roun'  de 

'flicted  one,  an'  hab  paid  dar  respect  ter  her  usefulness  an' 

value,  an'  hab  shown  her  becomin'  sympathy.      Her  own 

fam'ly,  as  is  also  becomin',  hab  been  first  ter  ease  her  up 

accordin',  first,  to  the  law  of  primigeneshureship.     I  know 

dat  dis  is  a  long  word,  but  long  words  of  en  mean  a  heap, 

an'  dat's  why  dey  are  so  long.     Dat  good  little  girl,  Vilet, 

is  de  oldes'  granchile,  an'  she  fulfils  a  great  law  in  helpin' 

her  granma.     Den  it's  accordin'  to  the  gospel,  for  a  loving 

an'  self-denyin'    spirit  has  been  shown.     Mr.  Watson   has 

obeyed  de  great  law  of  matrimony.     He  has  married  into 

dis  fam'ly,  an'  he  pulls  with  it  an'  for  it  instead  ob  against 

it  as  we  see  too  of  en.     De  Lawd's  blessin'  will  rest  on  dis 

fam'ly." 

"I  feels  greatly  comforted,"  said  Aun'  Sheba.  "Dis  has 
been  a  bressed  season  an'  a  out-pourin'.  I  mos'  feels  'lig- 
ious  dis  ebenin'.  De  chilen  an'  dis  deah  chile"  (patting 
Vi'let's  head)  "warm  me  up  betteh'n  flannel  an'  de  fiah. 
Elder,  you'se  a  good  shep'd  ob  de  flock.  You'se  a  lookin' 
arter  body  an'  soul.  You'se  got  de  eddication  to  talk  big 
words  to  us,  an',  now  we'se  free,  we  hab  a  right  to  big 
words,  no  mattah  how  much  dey  mean.  It's  po'ful  com- 
fortin'  ter  know  we'se  doin'  'cordin'  to  de  law  an'  de 
gospel. ' ' 

"Tears  ter  me,"  said  old  Tobe,  "dat  Uncle  Sheba  might 
hab  a  little  law  an'  gospel  'plied  ter  him.  He  am  one  ob  de 
fam'ly.  I'se  a  heap  ol'er  dan  he  be,  an'  I'se  up  wid  de  sun 
an'  I  ony  wish  I  could  set  when  de  sun  sets.  'Pears  like  he 
orter  tote  some  ob  de  tings  ez  well  ez  his  slip  ob  a  gran- 
daughter,"  and  old  Tobe's  wool  seemed  fairly  to  bristle 
with  indignation  and  antipathy. 

"I've  no  doubt,"  began  Mr.  Birdsall,  "but  Mr.  Bug- 
gone'll  emulate — " 

"Elder,"  interrupted  Aunt  Sheba,  with  portentous  sol- 
emnity, "dere's  bobscure  'flictions  in  dis  worl'  dat  can't  be 
'splained,  an'  de  'flictions  of  en  begin  wen  we  say  'for  bettah 


102  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

or  wusser.'  You'se  say  youself  in  de  pulpit  dat  de  gret  an' 
bressed  sinner,  Paul,  had  a  thorn  in  de  flesh  an'  he  couldn't 
git  rid  ob  it  nohow,  dat  he  jes'  bar  wid  it  an'  go  'bout  his  busi- 
ness. Ole  Tobe  am  old,  but  he  wasn't  bawn  tired.  Dere's 
men  dat's  po'ful  weak  in  de  jints  ob  de  body,  yit  dat 
doesn't  hender  dem  from  gittin'  'round,  but  wen  de  weak 
feelin'  gits  inter  de  jints  ob  de  min'  den  dey's  shuah  to  be 
kinder  limpsy-slimpsy  an'  dey  ain't  no  help  fer  it.  Ez  I  sez 
afore,  de  'fliction  am  bobscure.  You  see  de  feet  an'  you  see 
de  ban's,  an'  you  tink  dat  dey  kin  go  an'  do  like  oder  ban's 
an'  feet,  but  dey  doesn't  an'  dey  can't.  Dere  ain't  no  back- 
bone runnin'  up  troo  de  min'  an'  wen  dere  ain't  no  backbone 
in  de  min'  de  pusson  jest  flop  down  yere  an'  flop  down  dar 
whareber  dere's  a  com'fo'ble  place  to  flop.  Dere's  'flictions 
dat  we  kin  pray  agin  an'  pray  out'n  ob,  an'  dere's  oders 
we  jes  got  ter  bar,  an'  we  gits  so  kinder  used  to'm  at  las 
dat  we'd  be  mo'  mis'ble  ef  dey  wuz  tooken  away.  We'se 
got  to  take  de  bittah  wid  de  sweet,  but,  tank  de  Lawdl  de 
sweet  'domernate  in  dis  yere  fam'ly.  Now  let's  hab  some 
praise  an'  prar.  Viiet,  honey,  sing  de  hymn  you'se  moder 
lern  you." 

And  in  a  somewhat  shrill,  yet  penetrating,  musical  voice, 

the  girl  sang: 

"I'se  a-journeyin',  I'se  a-journeyin', 
An'  de  way  am  bery  long ; 
De  road  ain't  known,  de  way  ain't  shown, 
Yit  I  journeys  wid  a  song. 

CHORUS 

*'De  journey,  de  journey,  howeber  rough  de  road, 
It's  a-leadin',  it's  a-leadin',  to  a  hebiuly  abode. 

I'se  a-travelin',  I'se  a-travelin', 

From  de  cradle  to  de  grave, 
De  road  am  rough  and  sto'  anuff, 

De  heart,  hit  mus'  be  brave. 

I'se  a-wondrin'.  I'se  a-wondrm'. 

Wen  de  journey  will  be  troo; 
But  1  goes  along  wid  sigh  an'  song, 

An'  a  cheery  word  fer  you." 


t4T» 


ttT» 


A    ''TABULATION"  103 

Kern  Watson  and  his  wife  were  gifted  with  those  rich, 
mellow,  African  voices  made  so  familiar  in  plantation  songs 
and  hymns.  In  the  case  of  "Sissy"  there  was  a  pathetic, 
contralto,  minor  quality  in  her  tones,  and  the  first  time 
young  Watson  heard  her  sing  a  spell  was  thrown  round 
his  fancy  which  led  to  all  the  rest.  The  same  might  be 
said  of  her,  for  when  her  husband,  then  a  stranger,  poured 
forth,  in  one  of  their  evening  meetings,  the  great  rich 
volume  of  his  voice,  she  ceased  to  sing  that  she  might 
listen  with  avidity.  It  was  not  long  after  that  before  Kern 
mustered  courage  to  ask  "Miss  Buggone,  mout  I  hab  de 
pleasure  ob  'company in'  you  home?"  Not  many  months 
elapsed  before  he  accompanied  her  home  to  stay,  with  Aun' 
Sheba's  full  consent. 

Other  hymns  followed  in  which  Uncle  Sheba  took  part 
with  much  unction,  for  he  wished  to  impress  all  present 
that  in  spite  of  the  "bobscure  affliction"  he  "injied  'ligion" 
as  much  as  any  of  them.  Mr.  Birdsall  offered  a  character- 
istic prayer,  and  then  Aun'  Sheba  nodded  to  Sissy,  who 
brought  out  a  large  supply  of  cakes  and  apples.  Some 
gossip  among  the  women  and  political  discussion  among 
the  men  occurred  while  these  were  being  disposed  of,  and 
then  the  little  company  broke  up,  leaving  Aun'  Sheba 
much  improved  in  health  and  spirits. 


104  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTEK  XIll 

CAPTAIN     BODINE 

THE  next  day  was  warm  and  sunny,  and  Ann'  Sheba, 
rising  much  refreshed,  felt  herself  equal  to  her  duties 
in  spite  of  her  fears  to  the  contrary.  She  took  Vilet 
with  her  to  a  shop,  and  there  purchased  a  much  smaller 
basket,  the  weight  of  which  when  filled  would  not  be 
burdensome  to  the  girl.  Thus  equipped  she  appeared 
before  Mara  at  the  usual  hour  with  her  grandchild,  and 
began  complacently:  ''Now,  honey  lam',  you'se  gwine  to 
hab  two  strings  to  you'se  bow.  1  sometimes  feel  ole  an' 
stiff  in  my  jints  an'  my  heft  is  kinder  agin  me  in  trompin'. 
Here's  my  granddaughter,  an'  she's  spry  as  a  cricket.  She 
kin  run  yere  an'  dar  wid  de  orders 'n  less  dan  no  time,  so 
you  won't  be  kept  kin'  ob  scruged  back  an'  down  kase  I'se 
slow  an'  hebby.     You  see?" 

"Yes,  Aun'  Sheba,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see.  I  have 
been  worrying  about  you,  for  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  you 
were  going  beyond  your  strength,  and  yet  I  did  not  know 
of  any  one  to  help  you  or  whether  you  wanted  any  one." 

"Now,  honey,  you  jes'  took  de  words  out'n  my  mouth 
'bout  you.  You'se  lookin'  po'ly,  an'  I'se  dreffle  'feared 
you'se  gwine  ter  get  beat  out.  You  want  help  mo'n  me, 
an'  I'se  had  it  on  my  min'  ter  talk  wid  you." 

"Oh,  Aun'  Sheba,  I'm  very  well, "  protested  Mara,  yet 
glad  to  think  that  her  paleness  and  languor  were  ascribed  to 
fatigue. 

"Now  see  yere,  honey,  I'se  got  my  blin'  side,  I  know, 
but  it  ain't  toward  you.  I  watch  ober  you  too  many  yeahs 
not  to  know  wen  you  po'ly.     You'se   gwine   beyon'  you 


CAPTAIN    BODINE  105 

strengt,  too.     Why  can't  you  get  some  one  ter  he'p  you  an' 

den  we  go  along  swimmin'?" 

''Well,  I'll  see.    1  reckon  I'll  be  better  soon,  and  I  don't 
care  to  do  more  than  can  be  done  in  a  quiet  way." 

The  new  arrangement  on  Aun'  Sheba's  side  of  the 
"pana'ship"  soon  began  to  work  well.  Vilet  proved  quick 
and  trustworthy,  saving  her  grandmother  many  a  weary 
step,  and  Mara  was  compelled  to  see  that  the  mutual  in- 
come might  be  greatly  increased  if  she  also  had  efficient 
help.  She  recognized  the  truth  that  she  was  becoming 
worn,  and  she  also  knew  the  cause  to  be  that  she  worked 
without  the  spring  of  hopefulness  or  even  the  quietness 
of  a  heart  at  rest.  She  had  almost  decided  to  intrust  Aun' 
Sheba  with  the  task  of  finding  a  suitable  helper,  when  she 
made  two  acquaintances  who  were  destined  to  become 
intimately  associated  with  her  experiences. 

One  afternoon  she  felt  so  lonely,  desolate  and  hopeless 
that  she  felt  she  must  go  out  of  herself.  The  future  was 
taking  on  an  aspect  hard  to  face.  Disposed  to  self-sacrifice, 
she  was  wretchedly  conscious  that  there  was  nothing  on 
which  she  could  bestow  a  devotion  which  could  sustain  or 
inspire.  There  was  no  future  to  look  forward  to,  no  cause 
to  be  furthered,  no  goal  to  be  reached  by  brave,  patient 
efiort.  If  she  had  lived  at  the  time  of  the  war  she  would 
have  loved  scarcely  less  than  her  mother,  but  her  heart 
would  have  been  almost  equally  divided  between  the  cause 
and  those  who  fought  and  suffered  for  it.  If  her  lot  had 
been  cast  in  the  North  it  would  have  been  much  the  same. 
The  same  patriotic  motives  would  have  kindled  her  imagi- 
nation and  produced  the  most  intense  loyalty  in  thought 
and  action.  She  was  endowed  with  a  spirit  which,  had  she 
lived  in  the  past,  might  easily  have  led  her  into  an  effort  to 
restore  some  overthrown  dynasty,  and  she  would  have  so 
idealized  even  a  very  questionable  conspiracy  as  to  render 
it  worthy,  in  her  belief,  of  unstinted  self-sacrifice.  A  girl 
of  her  character  would  have  faced  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
Roman  amphitheatre  for  the  sake  of  her  faith,  or  she  would 


l06  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

have  intrigued  against  the  Spanish  Inquisition  although 
hourly  conscious  that  she  was  exposing  herself  to  its 
horrors.  It  was  this  very  tendency  to  give  herself  up  wholly 
to  some  object  which  she  felt  had  a  supreme  claim  upon 
her,  that  had  enabled  her  to  live  so  long  upon  the  memories 
of  the  past.  The  lost  cause,  for  which  her  father  had  died, 
had  been  as  sacred  to  her  as  the  old  dream  of  freedom  to 
a  Pole,  but  Clancy's  question  in  regard  to  the  old  phase  of 
her  life,  "What  good  will  it  do?"  combining  with  other 
circumstances,  had  awakened  her  to  the  futility  of  her 
course.  Denied  the  hope  of  any  future  achievement,  lack- 
ing a  powerful  motive  to  sacrifice  herself  and  her  love,  her 
strong  nature  chafed  and  tended  to  despondency  at  the 
thought  of  a  simple  existence.  It  was  not  enough  merely 
to  earn  a  living  and  live.  She  craved  an  inspiring  object, 
an  antidote  for  her  heartache,  a  consciousness  that  in  giving 
up  much  she  also  accomplished  much.  Yet  the  future 
stretched  away  like  an  arid  plain  and  she  was  depressed 
by  the  foreboding  that  every  step  carried  her  further  from 
all  that  could  give  zest  to  life.  She  was,  therefore,  in  a 
mood  to  accept  anything  which  would  relieve  the  dreary 
monotony. 

On  the  afternoon  in  question  she  decided  to  call  upon  an 
old  lady  who  had  lost  nearly  all  her  kindred  and  property. 
*' Surely,"  thought  the  girl,  "she  has  nothing  to  look  for- 
ward to  in  this  world  but  a  few  more  straitened  years,  then 
death.     I  wish  I  were  as  old  as  she^" 

Taking  a  little  delicacy  she  started  out  to  pay  the  visit, 
hoping  to  gain  an  insight  into  the  philosophy  of  patient 
endurance.  She  veiled  herself  heavily,  for  she  was  ever 
haunted  by  the  fear  of  meeting  Clancy  on  the  street,  and 
that  her  tell-tale  face  might  lead  him  to  guess  the  cost  of 
her  effort  to  avoid  him. 

An  old  colored  woman  showed  the  way  into  the  parlor 
while  she  went  up  to  prepare  her  mistress  for  the  call. 
Eeading  by  the  window  was  a  middle-aged  gentleman  who 
bowed  gravely  and  resumed  his  book. 


CAPTAIN   BODINE  107 

He  riveted  Mara's  attention  instantly,  for  her  first  glance 
revealed  that  he  had  lost  his  right  leg  and  that  crutches 
leaned  against  the  arm  of  his  chair.  He  could  not  be  other 
than  a  veteran  of  the  Confederate  army,  as  it  would  be 
strange  indeed  to  find  an  ex-soldier  of  the  North  in  that 
abode.  His  strong,  finely-cut  side  face,  distinctly  outlined 
against  the  light,  was  toward  her.  It  was  marked  by  deep 
lines  as  if  the  man  had  suffered  and  had  passed  through 
memorable  experiences.  He  wore  no  beard  or  whiskers, 
but  an  iron-gray  mustache  gave  a  distinguished  cast  to 
a  visage  whose   habitual  expression   was   rather  cold  and 

haughty. 

Mara  had  time  to  note  these  characteristics  before  she 
was  summoned  to  Mrs.  Bodine's  apartment.  Although  the 
day  was  mild,  the  old  lady,  wrapped  in  shawls,  sat  by  an 
open  fire,  and  her  wrinkled  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure 
as  the  girl  came  toward  her.  Indeed,  there  was  something 
like  excitement  in  her  manner  as  she  kissed  her  guest  and 
said:  "Bring  your  chair  close,  my  dear,  so  I  can  see  you 
and  hold  your  hand.  I've  something  to  tell  you  which  I 
reckon  will  interest  you  almost  as  much  as  it  does  me." 

When  Mara  was  seated  in  a  low  chair  she  resumed: 
"How  much  you  would  look  like  your  father,  child,  if 
your  eyes  were  bright  and  laughing  instead  of  being  so 
large  and  sad!  Well,  well,  there  has  been  enough  to  make 
all  our  eyes  sad,  and  you,  poor  child,  have  had  more  than 
enougb.  Yet  you  are  good  and  brave,  my  dear.  So  far 
from  sitting  down  in  helpless  grieving,  you  are  taking  care 
of  yourself  and  have  time  to  think  of  an  old  woman  like 
me.  Poor  Mrs.  Hunter !  what  would  she  do  without  you  ? 
She,  like  so  many  of  us,  has  been  blighted  and  stranded, 
and  she  would  have  been  worse  off  than  I  if  it  had  not  been 
for  you,  for  I  have  a  little  left,  but  oh,  it  is  so  little.  Never 
did  I  wish  it  were  more  so  much  as  I  do  now.  You  must 
be  patient  with  me,  child.  I  sit  here  so  much  alone  that 
it  is  a  godsend  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to,  and  you  are  the 
very  one  I  wanted  to  see.     I  was  going  to  send  for  you,  for 


108  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

J.  knew  you  would  like  to  see  my  guests.  My  cousin  and 
Ms  daughter  are  visiting  me,  and  I  wish  they  could  stay 
with  me  always.  I  knew  you  would  like  to  meet  Captain 
Bodine— " 

*' Captain  Bodine!"  exclaimed  Mara,  "why,  that  is  the 
name  of  an  officer  who  used  to  be  in  my  father's  regiment." 

"He  is  the  very  same,  my  dear." 

"Was  that  he  in  the  parlor?"  Mara  asked,  trembling 
with  excitement, 

"Yes,  he  and  his  daughter  arrived  only  yesterday." 

"Oh!"  said  Mara,  "I've  received  letters  from  him,  and 
I've  longed  to  see  him  for  years.  Can  I  not  go  down  and 
speak  to  him  at  once  ?  I  surely  do  not  need  any  introduc- 
tion to  the  old  friend  of  my  father." 

"No,  my  dear,  no  indeed.  You  need  no  formal  intro- 
duction to  any  guest  or  relative  of  mine.  Besides,  he  knows 
you  well  and  all  about  you,  although  he  has  never  seen  you 
since  you  were  a  child.  It  would  please  him  greatly  to  have 
you  go  down  and  speak  to  him  at  once,  for  he  would  know 
that  I  would  tell  you  about  his  being  here,  and  he  might 
think  you  cold  or  formal  if  you  delayed  seeing  him.  I'm 
glad  you  feel  so,  my  dear,  but  you  must  come  back  and  sit 
with  me  awhile  before  you  go  home.  I'll  ring  for  Hannah 
and  have  a  nice  little  feast  while  you  are  downstairs." 

Mara  scrupulously  veiled  her  impatience  until  her  kind, 
garrulous  friend  was  through,  and  then  stole  with  swift, 
noiseless  tread  to  the  parlor  below.  Standing  in  the  door- 
way, she  saw  that  the  object  of  her  quest  was  absorbed  in 
his  book.  "He  is  my  ideal  of  the  soldier  of  that  day,'  she 
thought.  "How  truly  he  represents  us,  with  his  sad,  proud 
face  and  mutilated  body!"  In  a  sort  of  awe  she  hesitated  a 
moment  and  then  said  timidly,  "Captain  Bodine." 

He  looked  up  quickly,  and  seeing  Mara's  lustrous  eyes 
and  flushed  face,  divined  instantly  who  she  was. 

"Is  not  this  Miss  Wallingford ?"  he  asked,  his  face  ex- 
pressing glad  anticipation  as  he  began  to  gather  up  his 
crutches. 


CAPTAIN    BODINE  109 

*'Do  not  rise,"  cried  Mara,  coming  foi-ward  instantly 
with  outstretched  hands. 

Bat  he  was  on  his  crutches,  and  said  feelingly,  "Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  receive  the  daughter  of  my  old  friend 
with  so  little  respect."  He  took  the  girl's  face  into  his 
hands,  and  looked  earnestly  into  her  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  re- 
sumed gently,  "you  are  Sidney  Wallingford's  child.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear,"  and  he  kissed  her  lightly  on  the  fore- 
head. "You  won't  mind  this  from  an  old  comrade  of  your 
father,"  he  said  as  he  made  her  take  his  chair  and  sat  down 
near  her.  "We  have  been  bereft  of  so  much  that  what  re- 
mains has  become  very  precious.  I  know  all  about  you, 
Mara." 

Tears  were  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  she  replied  falteringly, 
"And  I  know  of  you,  sir,  and  have  longed  to  meet  you. 
You  can  scarcely  know  how  much  your  words  mean  to  me 
when  you  say  you  were  my  father's  comrade  and  friend.  I 
knew  this,  but  it  seems  more  real  to  me  now,  and  I  feel  that 
seeing  you  is  coming  as  near  as  I  can  to  seeing  him." 

"My  poor  child!  Would  to  God  that  he  had  lived,  for 
you  would  have  been  his  pride  and  solace,  as  my  daughter 
is  to  me.  When  I  saw  you  last  you  were  a  little  black-eyed 
girl  and  happily  did  not  understand  your  loss,  although  you 
looked  as  if  you  did.  I  never  thought  so  many  years  would 
pass  before  I  saw  you  again,  but  we  have  had  to  fight  some 
of  our  hardest  battles  since  the  war,"  and  he  sighed  deeply. 

"How  soon  can  I  meet  your  daughter?"  Mara  asked, 
her  eyes  full  of  sympathy. 

"Very  soon.  I  urged  her  to  take  a  walk  on  the  Battery, 
for  she  has  not  been  very  well  of  late.  I  said  I  knew  all 
about  you,  as  I  have  been  told  of  your  loyalty  and  brave 
efforts  and  your  kindness  to  my  aged  cousin,  but  now  that 
I  see  you,  I  feel  that  I  know  very  little.  Your  face  is  full 
of  stories,  my  dear  child.  You  are  young,  and  yet  you  look 
as  if  the  memories  of  the  past  had  made  you  far  older  than 
your  years  warrant.    That  is  the  trouble  with  us.    We  have 


110  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

much  more  to  look  back  upon  than  to  look  forward  to.    Yet 
it  should  not  be  so  with  you." 

"It  can  scarcely  be  otherwise,"  Mara  answered  sadly; 
"you  have  touched  the  very  core  of  our  trouble,  and  I  sup- 
pose it  is  the  trouble  with  us  all  who  are  so  closely  linked 
with  the  past — we  have  so  little  to  look  forward  to.  But 
now  that  you  can  tell  me  about  my  father  the  past  seems  so 
near  and  real  that  I  do  not  wish  to  think  about  anything 

else." 

Time  sped  rapidly  as  Captain  Bodine  recalled  the  scenes 
and  incidents  of  his  life  which  were  associated  with  his  old 
commander,  and  Mara  listened  with  an  absorbed,  tearful  in- 
terest which  touched  him  deeply.  The  proud,  reserved  ex- 
pression of  his  face  had  passed  away  utterly,  and  the  girl 
appreciated  the  change.  His  sympathy,  the  gentleness  of 
his  tones  and  the  profound  respect  which  was  blended  with 
his  paternal  manner  made  her  feel  that  her  father's  friend 
was  already  her  friend  in  a  very  near  and  sacred  sense. 
While  he  was  reserved  about  his  own  affairs,  and  she  also 
was  conscious  of  a  secret  of  which  she  could  never  speak, 
they  had  so  much  in  common  that  she  felt  that  they  could 
talk  for  hours.  But  the  old  lady  in  the  apartment  above 
grew  impatient,  and  at  last  Hannah  stood  courtesying  in  the 
door  as  she  said,  "Missus  p'sent  her  compl'ments  an'  say 
would  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"There,  I've  been  selfish  and  thoughtless,"  said  Cap- 
tain Bodine,  "but  I  shall  see  you  again,  for  it  will  give 
Ella  and  me  great  pleasure  to  call  upon  you." 

"Yes,  indeed,  we  must  meet  often,"  Mara  added  ear- 
nestly. "I  hope  you  are  going  to  make  a  long  stay  in 
Charleston." 

"I  scarcely  know,"  he  replied,  and  again  there  was  an 
involuntary  sigh;  "but  I  must  keep  you  no  longer." 


'ALL    GIRLS    TOGETHER''  111 


CHAPTER  XIV 


ALL   GIRLS   together'* 


(C 


I 


'M  not  going  to  lose  my  visit  altogether,"  said  Mrs. 
Bodine,  when  Mara  returned  with  an  apology.  "If 
the  captain  has  only  one  leg,  he  can  get  out  and 
around  better  than  I  can.  Indeed  it  is  wonderful  how  he 
does  get  around.  He  is  the  spryest  man  on  crutches  I  ever 
saw,  and  you  know,  my  dear,  I've  seen  a  good  many.  In 
that  dreadful  war  we  were  only  too  glad  to  get  our  men 
back,  what  was  left  of  them,  and  if  an  arm  or  a  leg  were 
missing  we  welcomed  them  all  the  more,  but  we  couldn't 
give  much  more  than  a  welcome.  It  was  wreck  and  ruin 
on  every  side.  If  we  had  our  own  the  captain  would  be 
well  off,  as  you  and  I  would  be,  but  he  is  poor;  poorer  than 
most  of  us.  In  fact,  he  hasn't  anything.  He  wasn't  one  of 
those  supple  jointed  men  who  could  conform  to  the  times^ 
and  he  wasn't  brought  up  to  make  his  living  by  thrifty 
ways.  But  he  did  his  best,  poor  boy,  he  did  his  best. 
Would  you  like  to  hear  more  about  him?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Mara  replied,  "you  can't  know  how 
deeply  I  am  interested  in  him  and  his  daughter.  He  was 
my  father's  comrade  in  arms,  his  friend  and  follower.  You 
must  pardon  me  for  staying  away  so  long,  but  when  he  be- 
gan talking  of  my  father  I  felt  as  if  I  could  listen  forever, 
you  know.     I  honor  him  all  the  more  because  he  is  poor." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  know.  Most  of  us  are  learning  the 
hard  lessons  of  poverty.  I  call  him  a  boy  because  it  seems 
only  the  other  day  he  was  a  boy  and  a  handsome  one,  too. 


112  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

He  used  to  visit  us  here,  and  was  so  full  of  fun  and  frolic! 
But  he  has  had  enough  to  sober  him,  poor  fellow.  He  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  boy  when  the  war  began,  but  he  was 
among  the  first  to  enlist,  and,  like  your  father,  he  was  a  pri- 
vate soldier  at  first.  He  soon  received  a  commission  in  the 
same  regiment  of  which  your  father  became  colonel,  and  no 
doubt  would  have  reached  a  much  higher  rank  if  he  had 
not  lost  his  leg.  He  met  with  this  loss  before  your  brave 
father  was  killed,  but  I  suppose  he  told  you." 

"Yes,"  faltered  Mara,  "he  told  me  why  he  was  not  with 
my  father  at  the  last. 

"Yes,  if  he  could  he  would  have  been  with  him  and  died 
with  him,  and  sometimes  I  almost  think  he  wishes  that  such 
had  been  his  fate,  he  has  suffered  so  much.  During  the  re- 
mainder of  the  war  he  had  command  of  inland  positions 
which  did  not  require  marching,  and  he  always  made  the 
record  of  a  brave,  high-minded  officer.  After  the  war  he 
married  a  lovely  girl,  and  tried  to  keep  the  old  plantation: 
but  his  capital  was  gone,  taxes  were  high,  the  negroes 
wouldn't  work,  and  I  suppose  he  and  his  wife  didn't  know 
how  to  practice  close  economy,  and  so  the  place  had  to 
be  sold.  It  didn't  bring  enough  to  pay  the  mortgages.  It 
cut  him  to  the  quick  to  part  with  the  old  plantation  on 
which  the  family  had  lived  for  generations,  but  far  worse 
was  soon  to  follow,  for  his  wife  died,  and  that  nearly  broke 
his  heart.  Since  that  time  he  has  lived  in  Georgia  with  his 
only  child,  Ella,  getting  such  occupation  as  he  could — office 
work  of  various  kinds,  but  I  suppose  his  reserved,  gloomy 
ways  rendered  him  unpopular;  and  even  our  own  people, 
when  it  comes  to  business,  prefer  an  active  man  who  has  a 
ready  word  for  every  one.  I  conjecture  much  of  this,  for 
he  is  not  inclined  to  talk  about  himself.  Poor  as  I  am,  I'm 
glad  they  accepted  my  invitation,  and  I  mean  to  do  all  in 
my  power  to  get  him  employment  here.  I  have  a  little  in- 
fluence  yet  with  some  people,  and  perhaps  a  place  can  be 
found  or  made  for  him.  He  and  his  daughter  don't  require 
very  much,  and  God  knows   I'd  share  my  last  crust  with 


''ALL    GIRLS    TOGETHER''  113 

them,  and,"  she  concluded  with  a  little  apologetic  laugh, 
"it  is  almost  like  sharing  a  crust." 

"Oh,  he  will  get  employment,"  cried  Mara,  enthusiasti- 
cally; "his  disabled  condition  in  itself  will  plead  eloquently 
for  him.     How  old  is  Ella  ?' ' 

"She  must  be  eighteen  or  thereabout." 

"I  wonder  if  she  wouldn't  like  to  help  me  ?" 

"Help  you?  She'd  be  delighted.  But  then,  my  dear, 
you  must  not  be  carried  away  by  your  generous  feeling. 
We're  all  proud  of  you  because  you  have  struck  out  so 
bravely  for  yourself;  but  surely  you  have  burdens  enough 
already." 

"Perhaps  Ella  can  lighten  my  burden,  and  I  hers;  but  it 
is  very  homely,  humble  work." 

"You  dear  child!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bodine,  with  her 
little  chirruping  laugh,  "you  are  not  a  very  homely,  hum- 
ble doer  of  the  work.  I  reckon  there's  no  prouder  girl  in 
town.  But  that's  the  way  it  is  with  the  captain  and  all  of 
us,  in  fact.  The  poorer  we  are,  the  prouder  we  are.  Well, 
well,  our  pride  is  about  all  we  can  keep  in  these  times.  You 
need  have  no  fear,  however,  that  Ella  will  hesitate  in  help- 
ing you,  except  as  she  may  very  naturally  think  herself  in- 
competent, or  that  you  are  wronging  yourself  in  trying  to 
help  her." 

"We'll  see  about  it,"  Mara  remarked  thoughtfully;  "I 
will  invite  her  to  spend  a  morning  with  me,  and  then  she 
can  obtain  a  practical  idea  of  my  work.  She  might  not  like 
it  at  all,  or  she  might  like  to  do  something  else  much  better, 
and  so  would  be  embarrassed  if  I  asked  her  to  help  me,  dis- 
liking to  refuse,  and  yet  wishing  to  do  so." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine,  smiling;  "we  have  some 
right  to  think  ourselves  'quality'  still,  as  old  Hannah  calls 
us.  We  are  just  as  considerate  of  one  another's  feelings  as 
if  we  were  all  Eoyal  Highnesses.  Have  it  your  own  way, 
my  dear,  if  you  truly  think  Ella  can  be  of  service  to  you, 
I  reckon  you  need  help,  for  you  don't  looi  as  well  as  whec 
I  saw  you  last." 


114  THE    EARTH   TREMBLED 

"Yes,"  acquiesced  Mara,  "I  think  I  do  need  help.  Ann' 
Sheba's  granddaughter  is  assisting  her,  and  a  good  deal  more 
could  be  sold  if  it  were  properly  prepared.  It  would  be  a 
great  happiness  if  my  need  opened  the  way  for  Ella,  for  I 
feel  it  would  please  my  father  as  much  as  it  would  please  me 
if  I  could  be  of  service  to  his  old  friend  and  his  daughter." 

"I  have  heard,  dear,  that  you  are  always  trying  to  do 
what  you  thought  your  father  and  mother  would  like. ' ' 

"God  forbid  I  should  do  otherwise,"  said  the  girl  sol- 
emnly. 

"Well,  perhaps  they  know  all  about  it,"  said  the  old 
lady,  wiping  a  tear  from  her  eye.  "How  close  our  troubles 
bring  us  together.  You  are  lonely  for  your  parents,  and  I 
am  lonely  for  my  hasband  and  children." 

"And  yet  you  are  braver  and  more  cheerful  than  I,"  re- 
sponded Mara;  "I  was  so  sad  and  discouraged  over  the  fu- 
ture this  afternoon,  that  I  came  to  you,  thinking  that  you 
might  unconsciously  teach  me  patience  and  courage.  Truly 
I  was  guided,  for  you  face  everything  like  a  soldier.  Then 
in  meeting  Captain  Bodine,  I  seem  to  have  been  brought 
nearer  my  father  than  ever  before.  I  can't  hear  about  him 
without  tears,  yet  I  would  turn  from  any  pleasure  in  the 
world  to  hear  about  him.  What  happiness  if  he  had  lived 
and  I  could  help  him  in  some  way!" 

"Well,  my  dear,  we  all  have  our  own  way  of  bearing 
our  burdens,  and  I  often  wonder  whether  I  have  done  more 
laughing  or  crying  in  my  life.  It  has  been  one  or  the  other 
most  of  the  time.  I  have  always  thanked  the  Lord  that 
when  the  pain  or  the  trouble  was  not  too  severe,  I  could 
laugh,  and  soon  I  know  all  tears  will  be  wiped  away.  It's 
harder  for  you,  my  dear ;  it  is  harder  for  you  than  me.  My 
voyage  has  been  long  and  stormy;  husband,  sons,  and  the 
cause  for  which  they  died  all  lost;  but  I'm  coming  into  the 
harbor.  You've  got  your  voyage  before  you.  But  take 
courage.  Who  knows  but  that  your  early  days  may  be 
your  darkest  days?     They  can't  always  be  dark  when  you 


''ALL    GIRLS    TOGETHER''  115 

are  so  ready  to  brighten  the  lives  of  others.     There,  I  hear 
Ella's  voice." 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Ella 
Bodine  entered.  We  have  all  seen  bright-hued  flowers  grow- 
ing in  shaded  places,  and  among  cold,  grim  rocks.  Such 
brightness  had  the  young  girl  who  now  appears  upon  the 
scene  of  our  story.  One  speedily  felt  that  its  cause  was 
not  in  externals,  but  that  it  resulted  from  inherent  quali- 
ties. As  with  Mara,  there  had  been  much  in  her  young 
life  sad  and  hard  to  endure.  She  had  not  surmounted  her 
trouble  by  shallowness  of  soul  or  callousness,  but  rather  by 
a  spiritual  buoyancy  which  kept  her  above  the  dark  waves, 
and  enabled  her  to  enjoy  all  the  sunshine  vouchsafed.  Yet, 
unlike  her  father  and  Mara,  she  lived  keenly  in  the  present. 
She  sympathized  truly  and  honestly  with  her  father,  and  in 
a  large  measure  intelligently  recognized  the  nature  of  the 
deep  shadows  projected  across  his  life  from  the  past,  but  it 
was  her  disposition  to  keep  as  near  to  him  as  possible  and 
yet  remain  just  beyond  the  shadows.  She  possessed  a 
wholesome  common-sense  which  taught  her  that  the  shad- 
ows were  not  hers  and  that  they  were  not  good  for  her 
father;  so  she  was  ever  making  inroads  upon  them,  beguil- 
ing him  into  a  smile,  surprising  him  into  a  laugh — in  brief, 
preventing  the  shadows  from  deepening  into  that  gloom 
which  is  dangerous  to  bodily  and  spiritual  health.  She 
made  his  small  earnings  go  a  great  way,  and  banished  from 
his  life  the  sordidness  of  poverty.  God  outlines  an  angel  in 
many  a  woman's  heart,  and  often  privations  and  sorrow, 
more  surely  than  luxury,  fill  out  the  divine  sketch.  In  the 
instance  of  Ella  Bodine  the  angelic  was  so  sweetly  and  in- 
extricably interwoven  with  all  that  was  human  that  to  mor- 
tal comprehension  she  was  better  than  a  wilderness  of  con- 
ventional angels.  She  was  depressed  now  under  one  of  the 
few  forms  of  adversity  that  could  cast  her  down.  Her  father 
was  out  of  employment,  their  slender  income  had  ceased, 
and  they  were  dependent.     She  felt  this  cruel  position  all 


116  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

the  more  because  Mrs.  Bodiae  out  of  her  poverty  gave  her 
hospitality  so  unstintedly  and  ungrudgingly. 

To  the  sensitive,  fine-natured  girl  it  was  like  feeding 
upon  the  life  of  another,  and  that  other  a  generous  friend. 

During  her  walk  a  score  of  schemes  to  earn  money  had 
presented  themselves  to  her  inexperienced  mind,  but  her 
hands  had  learned  only  how  to  eke  out  a  small  salary  and 
to  minister  to  her  father.  She  had  come  home  resolute  to 
do  something,  but  troubled  because  she  knew  not  what 
to  do. 

She  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  Mrs.  Bodine's 
apartment,  and  looked  questioningly  at  Mara,  at  the  same 
time  half  divining  who  she  was. 

"Come  along,  Ella,"  cried  Mrs.  Bodine,  with  a  little  joy- 
ous laugh  of  anticipation,  "and  kiss  one  of  your  best  friends, 
although  you  never  saw  her  before." 

"Is  it  Mara?" 

Mara's  smile  and  swift  approach  answered  her  question. 
In  an  instant  the  two  girls  were  in  each  other's  arms,  their 
warm  Southern  hearts  touched  by  the  electric  fire  of  sym- 
pathy and  mutual  understanding.  Mrs.  Bodine  clapped  her 
little,  thin  hands  and  cried,  "Oh,  that's  fine.  Southern 
girls  have  not  died  out  yet.  Why,  even  my  old  withered 
heart  had  one  of  the  most  delicious  thrills  it  ever  experi- 
enced. Now,  my  dears,  come  and  sit  beside  me  and  get 
acquainted." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  already,  Mara  Wallingf ord, "  said  Ella 
with  sparkling  eyes. 

"And  I  am  learning  to  know  you,  Ella.  I  know  you 
already  well  enough  to  love  you." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bodine,  raising  her  hands  in  a 
comic  gesture,  "I  reckon  the  ice  is  broken  between  you. " 

They  all  laughed  at  this  sally,  and  Mara  was  so  cheered, 
her  nerves  all  tingling  with  excitement,  that  she  could 
scarcely  believe  herself  to  be  the  half-despairing  girl  of 
a  few  hours  before.  "Now  come,"  resumed  Mrs.  Bodine, 
"let  us  all  be  girls  together  and  have  a  good  talk.     At  this 


''ALL    GIRLS    TOGETHER''  117 

rate  I'll  soon  be  younger  than  either  of  you.  I  haven't  had 
my  share  yet.  Do  you  believe  it,  Ella  ?  Mara  has  been 
downstairs  petting  your  father  for  an  hour." 

''I  wonder  where  he  is.  He  wasn't  in  the  parlor  when 
I  came  in." 

''I  reckon  he  followed  your  good  example  and  went  out 
for  a  walk.  I  heard  the  door  shut.  Well,  you  girls  make 
a  picture  that  it  does  my  old  eyes  good  to  look  at.  Here's 
Mara  with  her  creamy  white  skin  and  eyes  as  lustrous  now 
as  our  Southern  skies  when  full  of  stars,  but  sometimes,  oh 
so  sad  and  dark.  Dear  child,  I  wish  I  could  take  the  gloom 
all  out  of  them,  for  then  I  could  think  your  heart  was  light. 
But  I  know  how  it  is;  I  know.  Your  mother  gave  you 
her  sad  heart  when  she  gave  you  life,  but  you  have  your 
father's  strength  and  courage,  my  dear,  and  you  will  never 
give  up.  And  here  is  Ella  with  complexion  of  roses  and 
snow  and  eyes  like  violets  with  the  morning  dew  still  on 
them — forgive  an  old  woman's  flowery  speech,  for  that's  the 
way  we  used  to  talk  when  I  was  young — yes,  here  is  Ella,  a 
little  peach  blossom,  yet  brimming  over  with  the  wish  to  be- 
come a  big,  luscious  peach.  Lor,  Lor — oh,  fie !  Am  I  say- 
ing naughty  words  ?  But  then,  my  dears,  you  know  my 
husband  was  a  naval  officer,  and  no  man  ever  swore  more 
piously  than  he.  Bad  words  never  sounded  bad  to  me  when 
he  spoke  them — he  was  such  a  good  Christian!  and  he  al- 
ways treated  me  as  he  expected  to  be  treated  when  he  was 
on  deck.  I  reckon  that  I  and  the  Commodore  are  the  only 
ones  that  ever  ordered  him  around, ' '  and  the  old  lady  cried 
and  laughed  at  the  same  time,  while  the  faces  of  her  young 
companions  were  like  flowers  brightened  by  the  sun  while 
still  wet  with  dew. 

"Let  me  see,"  continued  the  old  lady,  "where  was  I 
when  I  began  to  swear  a  little;  just  a  little,  you  know.  It 
is  a  sort  of  tribute  to  my  husband,  and  so  can't  be  very 
wicked.  Oh,  I  remember,  I  was  thinking  what  fun  it  would 
have  been  to  chaperon  you  two  girls  at  one  of  our  grand 
balls  in  the  good  old  times.     I  would  sail  around  like  a 


118  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

great  ship  of  the  line,  convoying  two  of  the  trimmest  little 
crafts  that  ever  floated,  and  all  the  pirates,  I  mean  gallant 
young  men,  my  dears,  would  hover  near,  dying  to  cut  you 
out  right  under  my  guns,  or  nose,  as  land- lubbers  would 
say.  Well,  well,  either  of  you  could  lead  a  score  of  them  ^ 
a  chase  before  you  signed  articles  of  unconditional  surren- 
der, ' '  and  Mrs.  Bodine  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed 
in  her  silvery  little  birdlike  twitter.  The  girls  laughed 
with  her,  pleased  in  spite  of  themselves  with  visions  that, 
both  in  their  nature  and  by  tradition,  accorded  with  the 
young  romantic  period  of  life.  But  memory  speedily  began 
to  restore  gravity  to  Mara's  face.  Mrs.  Bodine  recognized 
this,  and  her  own  face  grew  gentle  and  sorrowful.  Laying 
a  hand  on  each  of  the  girls  heads  she  resumed,  *'Do  not 
think  I  am  a  frivolous  old  woman  because  I  run  on  so.  I 
do  not  forget  the  present  any  more  than  Mara,  I  see,  can- 
not. Dear  children,  the  circumstances  of  your  lot  render 
you  as  burdened  and,  in  some  ways,  almost  as  old  as  I  am. 
Ella  can  forget  easier  than  you,  Mara,  but  that  is  because 
God  has  put  brightness  into  her  heart.  Let  us  all  face  the 
truth  together.  I  am  long  past  being  an  elegant  matron. 
1  am  only  a  poor  old  childless  widow  with  but  a  few  more 
days  of  feebleness  and  suffering  before  me,  yet  I  do  not 
sigh  in  a  bitter,  murmuring  spirit.  Old  as  I  am,  I  am  still 
God's  little  child,  and  sometimes  1  think  this  truth  makes 
me  as  mirthful  as  a  child.  When  the  pain  is  hardest  to 
bear,  when  the  past,  oh,  the  past — with  all  its  immeasurable 
losses,  begins  to  crush  my  very  soul,  I  turn  my  dim  eyes 
upward  and  repeat  to  myself,  'There  is  a  Heaven  of  eternal 
rest  and  joy, '  and  so  I  grow  serene  in  my  waiting.  I  have 
always  loved  the  bright,  pleasant  things  of  this  world — it 
was  my  nature  to  do  so — but  He  who  bears  the  burdens  and 
heartbreak  of  the  whole  world  has  gently  lifted  my  love  up 
to  Him.  Didn't  He  have  compassion  on  the  widow  of 
Nain,  and  say  to  her,  'Weep  not'?  My  gallant  husband, 
my  brave  boys  and  this  poor  little  widow  are  all  in  His 
kands,  and  I  try  to  obey  His  gentle  command  not  to  weep 


*'ALL    GIRLS    TOGETHER''  119 

except  sometimes  when  I  can't  help  it  and  He  knows 
I  can't." 

The  two  girls  with  their  heads  in  her  lap  were  crying 
softly  from  sympathy.  With  light,  caressing  touches  to 
each  the  old  lady  continued,  "Ella,  my  dear,  you  are  like 
me  in  some  respects.  You,  too,  love  the  bright  pleasant 
things  of  this  world,  and  you  are  so  divinely  blessed  with 
a  buoyancy  of  heart  that  you  will  make  what  is  hard  and 
humdrum  bright  for  yourself  and  others.  You  will  em- 
broider life  with  sunshine  if  there  is  any  sunshine  at  ail. 
Like  myself,  you  will  be  able  to  smile  and  laugh  whenever 
the  pain  is  not  too  severe,  yet  I  fear  it  will  be  very  hard 
sometimes.  But,  as  my  husband  would  say,  you  are  taut, 
trim  and  well  ballasted,  and  good  for  a  long,  safe  voyage. 
You  have  obeyed  the  Fifth  Commandment,  and  its  promise 
is  yours. 

"Mara,  dear  child  my  heart,  for  some  reason,  aches  for 
you.  I  knew  and  loved  your  grandfather  and  your  father 
and  mother.  You  were  born  into  a  heritage  of  bitterness 
and  sorrow,  and  I  fear  Mrs.  Hunter,  with  all  her  good  qual- 
ities, was  not  so  constituted  as  to  be  able  to  counteract  in- 
herited tendencies.  I  wish  I  could  have  brought  you  up, 
for  then  we  could  have  cried  or  laughed  together  over  what 
happened. 

"But  you  have  learned  to  repress  and  to  brood — two 
dangerous  habits.  You  want  to  do  some  great  thing,  and 
alas!  there  is  seldom  a  great  thing  which  we  poor  women 
can  do.  You  are  not  impelled  by  ambition  or  a  desire  for 
notoriety,  but  by  a  sort  of  passion  for  self-sacrifice. 

"If  you  had  lived  twenty  odd  years  ago  no  soldier  of  the 
South  could  have  been  braver  or  more  devoted.  You  are 
not  satisfied  with  mere  living  and  making  the  best  of  life  as 
It  is.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feel  that  there  are  depths  in 
your  heart  which  no  one  understands.  Be  careful,  dear 
child,  and  be  patient.  Don't  yield  to  some  morbid  idea 
of  duty,  or  be  involved  in  some  chimerical  plan  of  an 
achievement. 


120  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

** Learn  Ella's  philosophy,  and  be  as  content  with  sun= 
shine  and  daily  duty  as  possible.  Ella  will  do  this  uncon- 
sciously, my  dear;  you  will  have  to  do  it  consciously,  just 
as  a  sick  man  seeks  health.  But  you  will  both  have  to  go 
forward  and  meet  woman's  lot.  I  was  once  a  young  girl, 
fancy  free,  like  you.  How  much  has  happened  since!  I 
now  feel  like  aa  old  hen  that  would  like  to  gather  you  both 
under  her  wing  in  shelter  from  all  trouble,"  and  again  her 
little  laugh  chimed  out  while  she  wiped  away  the  tears  which 
sprang  from  her  motherly  heart. 

The  thump  of  Captain  Bodine's  crutches  was  heard  on 
the  stair.  "Bring  him  in,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine,  mopping  her 
eyes  vigorously. 

Ella  ran  to  the  door  and  admitted  him,  and  then,  with  a 
pretty  custom  she  had,  took  away  a  crutch,  and  substituting 
one  of  her  own  round  shoulders  supported  him  to  a  large 
armchair.  The  low  western  sun  flooded  the  room  with 
light.  He  looked  questioningly  at  the  dewy  eyes  of  the 
two  girls  and  at  the  evidences  of  emotion  which  Mrs.  Bodine 
had  not  been  fully  able  to  remove. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "what  part  am  I  to  have  in  this  mourn- 
ful occasion?" 

Ella  stood  beside  him  with  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and 
was  about  to  speak,  when  Mrs.  Bodine  said  quickly  in  her 
piquant  way,  "You  are  to  be  chief  mourner." 

"A  role  for  which  I  am  peculiarly  fitted,"  be  replied 
sadly,  not  catching  her  humor. 

"Oh,  papa,  you  don't  understand,"  cried  Ella,  "we  have 
been  having  just  a  heavenly  time." 

He  looked  at  Mara  as  she  stood  beside  the  old  lady,  and 
his  very  soul  was  touched  by  the  sympathy  expressed  for 
him  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  Standing  there,  enveloped  in 
sunshine,  it  seemed  to  him  that  no  angel  of  God  could  re- 
gard him  more  kindly.  It  was  not  pity,  but  rather  honor, 
affection  and  that  deep  commiseration  of  which  but  few 
women  are  capable.  He  felt  instinctively  that  she  knew 
all  and  that  her  woman's  heart  was  suffering  vicariously 


*'ALL    GIRLS    TOGETHER"  121 

with  him  and  for  him.  The  very  air  was  electrical  with 
deep  human  feeling,  and  he,  yielding  to  a  strong  impulse 
scarcely  understood,  said  earnestly,  "God  bless  you,  Mara 
Wallingford. " 

Sensible  old  Mrs.  Bodine  felt  that  it  was  time  to  come 
back  to  every-day  life,  so  she  said  promptly,  "Yes,  and  He 
is  going  to  bless  her,  and  bless  us  all.     If  there  is  any 
mourning  to  be  done  on  this  occasion  you  must  do  it.     We 
three  girls  have  been  having  a  good  talk,  and  are  the  better    , 
for  It.     That's  the  demmed  total— oh,  fie!  there  I  am  at  it 
again.     Well,  Cousin  Hugh,  to  take  you  into  our  entire 
confidence,  we  have  been  facing  things  and  have  arrived 
at  several  conclusions,   one  of  which  is— now,  Ella,  shut 
your  ears— that  you  have  one  of  the  best  daughters  in  the 
world,  and  that  she  and  Mara  have  quite  broken  the  ice  be- 
tween them  and  are  going  to  be  very  good  friends,  and  I 
was  saying  how  I  would  like  to  convoy  two  such  girls  in 
one  of  our  ballrooms  in  the  good  old  times— oh,  well,  we 
have  just  been  having  a  long  lingo  as  girls  will  when  they 

get  together."  . 

Captain  Bodine  was  gifted  with  tact  and  a  quick  appre- 
ciation.    He  understood  the  old  lady  and  her  purpose. 

''Cousin  Sophy,"  he  said,  "you  are  just  the  same  as 
when,  a  boy,  I  used  to  visit  you-tears  and  smiles  close 
together.  Well,  I  believe  that  Heaven  comes  down  very 
near  when  you  three  girls  get  together." 

The  old  lady  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed  heartily. 
"Oh  Ella,  if  you  only  knew  what  a  mischievous  boy  your 
father  was  once!  But,  there,  we  have  had  enough  of  the 
past  and  the  future  for  one  day.  Mara,  my  dear,  you  must 
stay  and  banquet  with  us.  No,  no,  no,  I  won't  hear  any 
excuse.  When  I  once  get  on  quarter-deck  every  one  must 
obey  orders.  Ella,  direct  Hannah  to  spread  the  festive 
board.  You  and  Mara  can  lend  a  hand,  and  you  can  put 
on  all  we  have  in  five  minutes.  To  think  that  I  should 
have  eaten  that  delicious  jelly  you  brought,  greedy  old 
cormorant  that  I  am!"  f— koe— XT 


122  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

A  few  moments  later  Mara  supported  the  old  lady  down 
to  the  dining-room,  and,  though  the  viands  were  few  and 
meagre,  the  banqueters,  to  say  the  least,  were  not  common- 
place. Mara  said  nothing  of  her  plan,  but  Ella  was  invited 
to  spend  the  following  morning  with  her.  In  the  late 
lingering  twilight  Captain  Bodine  escorted  the  young  girl 
home.  On  the  way  thither  they  came  plump  upon  Owen 
Clancy.  He  glanced  keenly  from  one  to  the  other  as  he 
lifted  his  hat.     Mara's  only  response  was  a  slight  boWc 


TWO    LITTLE    BAKERS  123 


CHAPTER  XV 

TWO   LITTLE   BAKERS 

MARA  led  Captain  Bodine  up  to  their  little  parlor  and 
introduced  him  to  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  received  hira 
most  cordially,  feeling  that  in  him  she  recognized 
a  congenial  spirit.  He  treated  her  with  the  respect  and  old- 
time  courtesy  which  she  said  was  "so  truly  Southern." 
Their  feelings  and  beliefs  touched  closely  at  several  points, 
yet  they  were  very  different  in  their  essential  characteris- 
tics. Poor  Mrs.  Hunter  had  been  limited  by  nature  and 
education.  She  could  not  help  being  narrow  in  all  her 
views;  she  was  scarcely  less  able  to  dismiss  her  intense, 
bitter  prejudices.  She  was  quite  incapable  of  reasoning 
herself  into  her  mental  position;  it  was  simply  the  inevi- 
table result  of  her  circumstances,  her  lot  and  her  own  tem- 
perament. Captain  Bodine  was  a  proud  man,  as  proud 
toward  himself  as  toward  others.  The  cause  for  which  he 
and  his  kindred  had  suffered  and  lost  so  much  had  been 
sacred,  and  therefore  it  ever  would  be  sacred.  To  change 
his  views,  to  begin  revising  his  opinions,  would  be  to  stul- 
tify himself  and  to  reflect  dishonor  on  his  comrades  in  arms 
who  had  perished.  In  the  very  depths  of  his  young,  ardent 
spirit  he  had  once  devoted  himself  to  the  South;  he  had 
listened  reverently  to  prayers  from  the  pulpit  that  God 
would  bless  the  Southern  armies;  he  had  never  entered  into 
battle  without  petitions  to  Heaven,  not  that  he  might  es- 
cape, but  that  the  "Northern  invader"  might  be  overcome; 
his  uniform  had  been  stained  with  blood  again  and  again 
as  he  held  dying  comrades  in  his  arms  and  spoke  words  of 


124  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

cheer.  In  his  more  limited  way,  he  had  the  spirit  of  "Stone- 
wall" Jackson.  It  was  impossible  for  a  man  with  his  nature 
and  with  his  memories  to  argue  the  whole  matter  over 
coolly  and  recognize  misleading  errors.  During  his  youth 
and  early  manhood  his  feelings  had  been  so  intense  as  to  be 
volcanic,  and  that  feeling,  like  lava,  had  cooled  off  into  its 
present  unchangeable  forms  and  sombre  hues.  What  was 
bitterness  and  almost  spite  in  Mrs.  Hunter  was  a  deep, 
abiding  sorrow  in  his  heart,  a  great  dream  unfulfilled,  a 
cause  lofty  because  so  idealized,  in  support  of  which  he 
often  saw  in  fancy,  when  alone,  spectral  thousands  in  gray, 
marching  as  he  once  had  seen  them  in  actual  life.  That  all 
had  been  in  vain,  was  to  him  one  of  those  mysterious  provi- 
dences to  which  he  could  only  bow  his  head  in  mournful 
resignation,  in  patient  endurance.  He  had  no  hate  for  the 
North,  for  he  was  broad  enough  in  mind  to  recognize  that 
it  saw  the  question  from  its  own  point  of  view,  and,  as  a 
soldier,  he  knew  that  its  men  had  fought  gallantly.  But 
the  North's  side  of  the  question  was  not  his  side.  He  had 
been  conquered  in  arms  but  not  convinced  in  spirit.  While 
he  had  respect  and  even  admiration  for  many  of  his  old 
foes,  and  malice  toward  none,  he  still  felt  that  there  was 
a  bridgeless  chasm  between  them,  and,  by  the  instincts  of 
his  nature,  he  kept  himself  aloof.  If  he  could  perform  an 
act  of  kindness  to  a  Northerner  he  would  do  so  unhesi- 
tatingly; then  he  would  turn  away  with  the  impulse  of 
an  alien.  He  had  no  ambitious  schemes  or  hopes  for  the 
future;  he  had  buried  the  "lost  cause"  as  he  had  buried 
his  wife,  with  a  grief  that  was  too  deep  for  tears.  He  had 
come  to  value  life  only  for  Ella's  sake,  and  he  tried  to  do 
his  best  from  a  soldier- like  and  Christian  sense  of  duty, 
until  he  too  could  join  his  old  comrade  in  arms. 

Mrs.  Hunter  could  not  comprehend  such  a  man,  and  he 
gave  to  her  but  the  casual,  respectful  sympathy  which 
he  thought  due  to  a  gentlewoman  who  had  lost  much  like 
so  many  other  thousands  in  the  South.  After  a  brief  call 
he  hobbled  away  on  his  crutches,   forgetting  Mrs.  Hunter 


TWO    LITTLE    BAKERS  125 

and,  indeed,  almost  everything  in  the  deep  interest  excited 
by  Mara,  the  daughter  of  his  old  friend.     "Would  to  God, 
he  muttered,  "that  Sidney  Wallingford  could  have  lived 
and  seen  that  girl  look  at  him  as  she  looked  at  me  to-day." 
Soon  after  Captain  Bodine's  departure,    Mara  pleaded 
fatigue  and  retired  to  her  room,  promising  to  answer  her 
aunt's  many  questions  on  the  morrow.     She  was  very  sad 
and  discouraged  with  herself,  and  yet  she  had  not  the  de- 
spairing sense  of  the  utter  futility  of  her  life  which  had 
oppressed  her  when  she  started  out  in  the  early  afternoon. 
She  had  become  so  absorbed  and  interested  by  the  inci- 
dents and  experiences  of  her  visit  as  to  be  almost  happy. 
Just  as  she  had  attained  a  condition  of  mind  which  had  not 
blessed  her  for  months,  she  must  meet  Owen  Clancy.    With 
a   sort  of   inward    rage   and   wonder,    she    asked    herself: 
*'Why  did  my  heart  flutter  so?     Why  did  every  nerve  in 
my  body  tingle  ?     He  is  nothing  to  me  and  never  can  be, 
yet,   when  he  passed,  a  spirit  from  heaven  could  hardly 
have  moved  me  more.    What  is  his  mysterious  power  which 
I  cannot  eradicate?     Oh,  oh,  was  not  my  life  hard  enough 
before?     Must  I  go  on,  hiding  this  bitter  secret?  fighting 
this  hopeless   and   seemingly   endless   fight?     Well,   well, 
thank  God  for  this  day,  after  all.     In  Ella  Bodine  and  her 
father  1  have  found  friends  who  will  occupy  my  thoughts 
and  become  incentives  which  I  did  not  possess  before.    Dear 
father,  my  own  dear,  dead,  soldier  father,  it  would  please 
you  to  have  me  do  something  for  your  old  friend." 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  sunny,  and,  after  an 
early  breakfast,  Mara  was  in  the  kitchen,  with  all  the  ingre- 
dients of  the  dainties  she  so  skilfully  produced,  spread  out 
upon  the  tables.  Ella  had  been  asked  to  come  early;  her 
father  had  escorted  her  to  Mara's  residence,  and  then  gone 
away  on  an  errand  of  his  own. 

The  young  girl  was  greeted  with  a  warmth  which  made 
her  at  home  at  once,  and  proved  the  experiences  of  the 
previous  afternoon  were  not  the  result  of  mood  or  passing 
sentiment.     There  was  a  depth  in  Mara's  eyes  and  a  firm- 


226  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

ness  about  her  mouth  and  chin  which  did  not  indicate 
changing  and  unreasoning  "moods  and  tenses."  In  the 
clearer,  calmer  thought  of  the  morning  all  her  kind  pur- 
poses toward  Captain  Bodine  and  Ella  had  been  strength- 
ened, and  she  also  believed  more  fully  that  by  interesting 
herself  in  them  she  would  find  the  best  antidote  for  her  own 
trouble. 

Ella  had  been  welcomed  by  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  now,  as 
she  sat  in  the  little  sun-lighted  kitchen,  there  was  neither 
past  nor  future  to  her.  The  present  scene,  with  its  simple, 
homely  details,  was  all  absorbing. 

It  meant  very  much  to  the  girl,  for  she  saw  how  Mara 
was  achieving  independence,  and  by  work,  too,  which  house- 
keeping for  her  father  enabled  her  to  understand  better  than 
any  other.  Mara's  pulses  were  also  quickened,  for  she 
understood  the  eager,  intelligent  glances  of  her  friend. 
For  a  few  moments,  Ella,  as  company,  felt  compelled  to 
maintain  the  quiet  position  of  spectator;  then  overborne, 
she  sprang  up  exclaiming:  "Oh,  Mara,  dear,  do  give  me 
an  apron  and  let  me  help  you.  I'd  have  such  a  jolly 
forenoon!" 

"Why,  certainly,  Ella,  if  it  would  give  you  pleasure." 

The  article  was  produced,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  deep  con- 
tent, the  girl  tied  it  around  a  waist  by  no  means  waspish. 
Then  ofE  came  the  little  cuffs,  and  up  the  sleeves  were  rolled 
to  the  shoulder. 

"Ella,  what  lovely  arms  you  have!  If  I  were  a  man  I 
should  be  distracted  by  such  a  pair  of  arms. ' ' 

"Well,"  remarked  the  girl,  looking  at  them  compla- 
cently, "they'd  be  strong  enough  to  help  a  man  that  I 
cared  sufficiently  for  to  marry,  but  I  haven't  seen  that  man 
yet,  and  I  hope  his  lordship  will  keep  his  distance  indefi- 
nitely— till  I  have  more  time  to  bother  with  him  and  his 
distractions." 

"Is  your  time,  then,  so  completely  occupied?" 

"It  isn't  occupied  at  all,  and  that's  the  plague  of  it. 
But  I  reckon  it  soon  will  be,"  she  added  with  an  emphatic 


TWO    LITTLE   BAKERS  1'^^ 

little  nod.  "Papa  shall  learn  that  I  can  do  something  more 
for  him  than  cook,  and  your  example  has  fired  my  ambi- 
tion. I'll  ransack  this  town  till  I  find  something  to  do  that 
will* bring  money.  Dear  old  Mrs.  Bodine!  wasn't  she  per- 
fectly  enchanting  yesterday  ?  Do  you  think  I  can  be  con- 
tent  to  live  in  idleness  on  her  slender  means  ?  No,  indeed. 
I'd  buy  a  scrubbing-brush  first.  Oh,  isn't  this  fun?"  and 
the  flour  was  already  up  to  her  elbows. 

'*0h,  Ella,  dear,  I'd  feel  just  as  you  do  if  1  had  a  father 

to  work  for." 

"Now,  Mara,  don't  talk  so,  or  I'll  put  my  floury  arms 
right  about  your  neck  and  spoil  this  dough  with  a  flood  of 
briny  tears.     See,  the  sun  is  shining  and  there  is  work  to 
be  done.    Let's  be  jolly,  and  we'll  have  our  little  weep  after 
sundown.     Oh,  xMara,  dear,  I  wish  I  could  make  you  as 
light-hearted  as  I  am.    I  used  to  think  it  was  almost  wicked 
for  me  to  be  so  light-hearted,  but  I  don't  think  so  any 
more,  for  I  know  I've  kept  papa  from  going  down  into 
horrid  depths  of  gloom.     And  then  this  irrepressible  spirit 
of  fun   helps  me  over  ever  so  many  hard  places."     She 
sprang   back  into  the  middle  of  the  room,   and,  striking 
a  serio-comic  attitude,  continued:  "Here  I  am  in  no  end  of 
trouble— for  me.     There  is  a  grief  preying  on  my  vitals  that 
would  make  a  poet's  hair  stand  on  end  should  he  attempt 
to  portray  it.     Were  there  a  lover  around  the  corner,  sigh- 
ing like  a  furnace,  I  would  say  t«  him  'A vaunt!     My  heart 
is  broken,  and  do  you  think  I  can  bother  with  you  ?'     I  am 
at  odds  with  fate.     I  am  in  the  most  deplorable  position 
into  which  any  human  being  can  sink.     I  have  nothing  to 
do.     But  here  is  a  weapon  by  which  one  girl  has  conquered 
destiny,"  and  she  brandished  the  roller  with  which  she  had 
been   pressing   out  the  dough,   "and   I,    too,   shall  find  a 
sword  which  will  cut  all  the  pesky  knots  of  this  snarled-up 
old  world.     Then  when  I  have  achieved  complete  and  lofty 
victory  and  independence,  as  you  have,  dear,  I  may  say  to 
the  lover  around  the  corner,  'Step  this  way,  sir.     I  must 
ooasider  first  whether  you  would  be  agreeable  to  papa,  and 


128  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

then  whether  you  would  be  agreeable  to  me  and  then' — Oh, 
what  a  little  fool  I  am,  and  so  many  cookies  to  make. 
Please  don't  send  me  home.  I  will  work  now  like  a 
beaver,"  and  her  round  white  arms  grew  tense  as  she 
rolled  with  a  vigor  that  would  almost  flatten  brickbats. 

Mara  stood  at  one  side  watching  her  with  eyes  that  grew 
wonderfully  lustrous  as  was  ever  the  case  when  she  was 
pleased  or  excited.  Then  she  stole  up  behind  Ella,  and, 
putting  her  arm  around  her  neck,  looked  into  her  eyes  as 
she  asked,  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  help  me?" 

*'0f  course  I  like  to  help  you,"  said  Ella,  turning  with 
surprise  upon  her  friend. 

"Now,  Ella,  be  frank  with  me.  Say  no  if  you  feel  no. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  help  me  all  the  time  and  earn  money 
in  this  way?" 

A  slow  deep  flush  overspread  Ella's  face  as  she  stood  for 
a  moment  with  downcast  eyes  as  if  oppressed  with  a  sense 
of  shame.  Then  she  said  humbly:  "Forgive  me,  Mara. 
I've  been  very  thoughtless.  I  didn't  think  you  would  take 
my  ranting  as  an  appeal  to  your  generous  heart.  Believe 
me,  Mara,  I  was  not  hinting  to  you  that  I  might  share  in 
the  little  you  are  earning  so  bravely.  As  if  you  had  not 
burdens  enough  already. ' ' 

Mara  never  once  removed  her  eyes  from  the  girl's  in- 
genuous face  and  permitted  her  to  reveal  the  unselfishness 
and  sacred  pride  of  her  nature;  then  she  said  gently  and 
firmly:  "No,  Ella,  I  did  not  misunderstand  you  a  moment, 
and  I  want  you  to  understand  me.  In  one  sense  we  have 
been  acquainted  always,  yet  we  have  loved  each  other  from 
personal  knowledge  but  a  few  short  hours.  We  Southern 
girls  need  no  apologies  for  our  swift  intuitions,  our  quick, 
warm  feelings.  I  had  this  on  my  mind  as  soon  as  Mrs. 
Bodine  told  me  about  your  being  here,  and  I  had  quite 
set  my  heart  upon  it  as  soon  as  I  saw  you.  Ella,  dear,  I 
need  help;  I  have  more  than  I  can  do.  There  is  business 
enough  to  support  us  both,  and  I  had  almost  concluded  to 


TWO    LITTLE    BAKERS  129 

ask  Aun'  Sheba  to  get  me  a  helper.     But  what  a  delight 
it  would  be  to  work  with  you!" 

Ella's  face  had  been  brightening  as  if  gathering  all  the 
sunshine  in  the  spring  sky,  and  she  was  about  to  speak 
eagerly  when  Mara  stopped  her  by  a  gesture.  "Wait,"  she 
said,  "I  did  not  say  anything  of  this  last  evening  because 
1  was  not  sure  you  would  like  the  work.  If  you  do  not 
like  it,  you  must  be  frank  to  tell  me  so.  If  you  do  enter 
on  it  you  must  let  me  manage  all  in  business-like  ways,  for 
I  fear  that  you,  like  Aun'  Sheba,  will  be  inclined  toward 
very  loose  accounts.  You  must  be  willing  to  take  what 
I  feel  that  you  should  have,  and  there  must  be  no  generous 
insubordination.     Now  you  have  the  exact  truth." 

Ella's  lip  was  quivering  and  her  eyes  were  filling  with 
gathering  tears.  With  a  little  quaver  in  her  voice  she  strug- 
gled hard  to  give  a  mirthful  conclusion  to  the  affair.  "I 
accept  the  position,  ma'am,"  she  faltered,  making  a  court- 
esy, then  rushed  into  her  friend's  arms  and  sobbed:  "Oh, 
Mara,  Mara,  you  have  lifted  such  a  burden  from  my  heart! 
I  have  had  many  troubles,  but  somehow  it  seemed  that  I 
couldn't  bear  this  one,  though  I  tried  hard  to  keep  the  pain 
to  myself— papa  and  I  being  dependent.  And  then  to  have 
the  whole  trouble  banished  by  working  with  you  in  just 
the  kind  of  work  I  like!  Oh,  Mara,  darling,  how  can  I  ever 
thank  you  enough?" 

''Good  Lawd,  honey,  hab  you  heerd  on  any  ob  you'se 
folks  dyin'?"  and  Aun'  Sheba' s  awed  face  and  ample  form 
filled  the  doorway,  with  Vilet's  wondering  little  visage 
peeping  around  behind  her. 

Ella  sprang  away,  and,  turning  her  back  on  the  new- 
comers, mopped  her  face  vigorously  with  her  floury  apron. 
"No,  Aun'  Sheba,"  replied  Mara,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  for  Ella's  strong  emotion  had  unsealed  the  fountain 
of  her  eyes,  "I've  only  followed  your  good  advice  and  se- 
cured just  the  kind  of  help  I  need,  the  daughter  of  my 
father's  dear  old  friend,  Captain  Bodine.  I  reckon  you  re- 
member him. ' ' 


130  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

"Well,  now,  de  Lawd  be  bressed!"  ejaculated  Ann' 
Sheba,  sitting  down  with  her  great  basket  at  her  feet. 
*'  'Member  him?  Eeckon  I  does.  I  kin  jes'  see  de  han'- 
som  boy  as  he  march  away  wid  you'se  fader.  An'  his  little 
Missy  is  you'se  helper?"  and  she  looked  curiously  at  Ella, 
who  was  still  seeking  to  gain  self-control. 

The  girl  wheeled  around  with  a  face  wonderfully  stained 
and  streaked  with  flour  and  tears,  and,  ducking  just  such  a 
courtesy  as  Vilet  would  have  made,  said  to  Aun'  Sheba, 
*'Yes'm.     I'm  the  new  hand.     I'm  a  baker  by  trade." 

Aun'  Sheba's  appreciation  of  humor  was  instantaneous, 
and  she  sat  back  in  her  chair,  which  shook  and  groaned 
under  her  merriment     "Can't  fool  dis  culled  pusson,"  she 
began  at  last.     "You  tink  we  doesn't  keep  up  wid  de  times, 
but  we  does.    I'se  had  a  bery  int'restin'  season  wid  ole  Han- 
nah, who  lib  wid  Mis'  Bodine,  bress  her  heart !    She's  quality 
yere  on  arth  an'  she  gwine  ter  be  quality  in  Hebin.    I  knows 
a  heap  'bout  you  an'  you'se  pa.     I  knowd  him  'fore  you 
did.     I'se  seed  him  in  de  gran'  ole  house  in  Meetin'  Street 
a  dinin'  agin  an'  agin  wid  Marse  Wallingford  an'  my  deah 
Misse  Mary,  den  a  bride,  an'  de  gran'  ole  Major  Buggone. 
Oh,  Missy  Mara,  ef  you  could  ony  seen  de  ole  major,  you'd  a 
seen  a  genywine  So'  Car' liny  gen' 1' man  ob  wat  dey  call  de 
ole  school.     Eeckon  dey  habn't  any  betteh  schools  now. 
An'  young  Marse  Sidney,  dat's  you'se  fader.  Missy,  and 
young  Marse  Hugh,  dat's  you'se  fader.  Missy  Ella,  dey  was 
han'som  as  picters  an'  dey  drink  toasts  ter  Missy  Mary  an' 
compliment  her  an'  she'd  blash  like  a  red  rose;    an'  wen 
dey  all  'bout  ter  march  away  Missy  Mary  kiss  Marse  Hugh 
jes  as  ef  he  her  own  broder.    Lor,  Lor,  how  it  all  come  back 
ter  me!    Ef  de  Lawd  don'  bress  de  pa' na' ship  twix'  you  two 
gyurls  den  I  des  dun  beat." 

Regardless  of  flour  the  two  attle  bakers  stood  before 
Aun'  Sheba  with  arms  around  each  other  while  she  in- 
dulged in  reminiscences,  then  Ella,  dashing  away  the 
tears  that  were  gathering  again,  said  brusquely,  "The  new 
hand  will  have  to  be  boss  if  we  go  on  this  way.     Aun' 


TWO    LITTLE   BAKERS  131 

Sheba,  we  haven't  got  a  blessed  thing  ready  to  put  in  your 
basket." 

"Many  han's  make  light  wuck,"  said  the  old  woman 
sententiously.  "I  come  ye  re  arly  dis  mawnin'  to  gib  Missy 
Mara  a  lif  kase  she's  been  lookin'  po'ly  an'  I  hab  her  on 
my  min'  anxious-like.  But  now,  wid  a  larfin',  sunshiny 
little  ting  like  you  aroun',  Missy  Ella,  she'll  soon  be  as 
peart  as  a  cricket.  Vilet,  chile,  jes  wait  on  me  an'  han'  me 
tings,  an'  dese  two  baskets' 11  be  filled  in  de  quickest  jiffy 
you  eber  see." 

And  so  it  turned  out.  Aunt  Sheba  was  a  veteran  in  the 
field.  Flour,  sugar  and  spices  seemed  to  recognize  her 
power  and  to  come  together  as  if  she  conjured.  The  stove 
was  fed  like  the  furnace  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  and  the  girls' 
faces  suggested  peonies  as  the  cake  grew  light  and  brown. 

Mrs.  Hunter,  having  finished  her  morning  duties,  en- 
tered at  last  and  looked  with  doubtful,  troubled  eyes  upon 
the  scene.  Ella  and  Aun'  Sheba' s  mirthful  talk  ceased, 
while  little  Vilet  regarded  the  tall,  gray-haired  woman 
with  awe. 

"Well,  times  have  changed,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  sort 
of  groan.  "Our  home  has  become  little  better  than  a  bake- 
shop." 

"Well,  Missus,"  replied  Aun'  Sheba,  with  the  graven - 
image  expression  that  she  often  assumed  before  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter, "I'se  know'd  of  homes  dat  hab  become  wuss  dan  bake- 
shops.  Neber  in  my  bawn  days  hab  1  heerd  on  an  active, 
prosp'rous  baker  starbin'.  Jes'  you  try  dis  cooky  right 
fum  de  stove  an'  see  ef  it  doan  melt  in  you'se  mouf. "  And 
so  Aun'  Sheba  stopped  Mrs.  Hunter's  lamentations  and 
clinched  her  argument. 


i32  TEE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HONEST   FOES 

CAPTAIN  BODINE'S   errand  \vas  characteristic  of 
the  man.     He  had  accepted  his  cousin's  hospital- 
ity and  sympathy  most  gratefully,  and  his  quick 
apprehension  had  gathered  from  some  of  her  words  that  she 
was  bent  on  moving  her  Httle    segment  of  "heaven   and 
earth,"  to  secure  him  employment.     While  perfectly  ready 
to  receive  any  gracious  benefactions  from  heaven,  where  he 
justly   believed   that   the   good  old   lady's   power  centred 
chiefly,  he  shrank  from  her  terrestrial  efforts  in  his  behalf, 
knowing  that  they  must  be  made  with  very  few  exceptions 
among  those  who  were  straitened  and  burdened  already. 
He  did  not  want  a  ''place  made"  for  him  and  to  feel  that 
other  Southern  men  were  practicing  a  severer  self-denial  in 
order  to  do  so.     With  a  grim,  set  look  on  his  face  as  if  he 
were  going  into  battle,  he  halted  downtown  to  the  counting- 
room  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  merchants  and  shippers  in  the 
City.    He  knew  this  man  only  by  reputation,  and  his  friends 
would  regard  an  application  for  employment  to  Mr.  Hough- 
ton, as  extraordinary  as  it  certainly  would  be  futile  in  their 
belief.     Mr.  Houghton  was  quite  as  bitter  against  the  South 
in  general  and  Charleston  in  particular  as  Mrs.  Hunter  in 
her  enmity  of  all  that  savored  of  the  North;  and,  as  human 
nature  goes,  they  both  had  much  reason,  or  rather  cause, 
for  their  sentiments.     The  experiences  of  many  of  that  day 
were  not  conducive  to  calm  historical  estimates  or  to  "the 
charity  that  suffereth  long  and  is  kind."     Mr.  Houghton 
was  a  New  England  man,  and  hated  slavery  almost  as  in- 
tensely as  it  deserved  to  be  hated.     The  trouble  with  him 


HONEST   FOES 


133 


had  been  that  he  did  not  separate  the  "peculiar  institution" 
widely  enough  from  the  men  who  had  been  taught  by  their 
fathers,  mothers  and  ministers  to  believe  in  it.  He  made 
no  allowances  for  his  Southern  fellow-citizens,  as  many  of 
them  would  make  none  for  him.  With  him,  it  was  "Slave- 
driver";  with  them,  "Abolitionist";  yet  he  revered  and 
they  revered  the  great-hearted  planter  of  Mount  Vernon. 
When  the  war  came  at  last  to  teach  its  terrible,  yet  es- 
sential lessons,  Mr.  Houghton's  eldest  son  was  among  the 
first  to  exercise  the  courage  of  the  convictions  which  had 
always  been  instilled  mto  his  mind.  The  grim  New  Eng- 
lander  saw  him  depart  with  eyes  that,  although  tearless, 
were  full  of  agony,  also  of  hatred  of  all  that  threatened  to 
cost  him  so  much.  His  worst  fears  were  fulfilled,  for  his 
son  was  drowned  in  a  night  attack  on  Fort  Sumter,  and,  in 
his  father's  morbid  fancy,  still  lay  in  the  mud  and  ooze  at 
the  bottom  of  Charleston  harbor. 

The  region  gained  a  strange  fascination  for  the  stricken 
man,  and  he  at  last  resolved  to  live  near  his  son's  watery 
grave  and  take  from  the  very  hands  of  those  whom  he  re- 
garded as  his  boy's  murderers  the  business  which  they  might 
regard  as  theirs  naturally.  So  he  removed  to  Charleston, 
and  employed  his  capital  almost  as  an  instrument  of  re- 
venge. He  did  not  do  this  ostentatiously,  or  in  any  way 
that  would  thwart  his  purpose  or  his  desire  to  accumulate 
money,  but  his  aims  had  come  to  be  very  generally  recog- 
nized, and  he  received  as  much  hate  as  he  entertained.  Yet 
his  wealth  and  business  capacity  made  him  a  power  in  com- 
mercial circles,  and  Southern  men,  who  would  no  more  ad- 
mit him  to  their  homes  than  they  would  an  ogre,  dealt  with 
him  in  a  cool  politeness  that  was  but  the  counterpart  of  his 
grim  civility. 

Captain  Bodine  knew  that  Mr.  Houghton  employed 
much  help  in  his  business.  He  knew  that  the  work  of 
many  of  his  employes  must  be  largely  mechanical,  requir- 
ing little  or  no  intercourse  with  the  master,  and  the  veteran 
reasoned,  "I  could  give  him  honest  work,  and  he  in  return, 


134  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

pay  me  my  salary,  we  personally  not  being  under  the  slight- 
est social  obligation  to  each  other.  I'd  rather  wring  money 
from  his  hard  fist  than  take  it  from  the  open  hand  of  a  too 
generous  friend,  I  could  then  get  bread  for  Ella  and  my- 
self on  the  simple  ground  of  services  rendered." 

He  therefore  entered  the  outer  office  and  asked  for  Mr. 
Houghton.  A  clerk  said,  "He  is  very  busy,  sir.  Cannot  I 
attend  to  your  matter  ?" 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Houghton  personally." 

"Will  you  send  in  your  card,  sir?" 

Captain  Bodine  took  one  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  upon 
it,  "I  wish  to  see  you  briefly  on  a  personal  matter."  A  mo- 
ment later  he  was  ushered  into  Mr.  Houghton's  presence, 
who  was  writing  rapidly  at  his  desk.  Bodine  stood  still, 
balancing  himself  on  his  crutches  while  the  merchant  fin- 
ished the  sentence.  He  looked  at  the  hard  wrinkled  face 
and  shock  of  white  hair  with  the  same  steady  composure 
that  he  had  often  faced  a  battery,  as  yet  silent,  but  charged 
with  fiery  missiles. 

At  last  Mr.  Houghton  looked  up  with  an  impatient  word 
upon  his  lip,  but  checked  it  as  he  saw  the  striking  figure  be- 
fore him.  For  an  instant  the  two  men  looked  steadily  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Ever  since  the  war.  Captain  Bodine  had 
dressed  in  gray,  and  Mr.  Houghton  knew  instinctively  that 
his  visitor  was  a  Confederate  veteran.  Then  the  captain's 
mutilation  caught  his  attention,  and  his  very  manhood  com- 
pelled him  to  rise  and  stiffly  offer  a  chair. 

"You  wished  to  see  me  personally,"  he  remarked,  coldly. 
"I  must  request  you  to  be  brief,  for  I  rarely  allow  myself  to 
be  disturbed  at  this  hour." 

"I  will  be  brief.  I  merely  come  to  ask  if  you  have  em- 
ployment for  a  tolerably  rapid,  accurate  penman  ?' ' 

"Do  you  refer  to  yourself?"  Mr.  Houghton  asked,  his 
brow  darkening. 
"1  do,  sir." 

"Do  you  think  this  a  sufficient  excuse  for  interrupting 
me  at  this  hour  ?' ' 


HONEST  FOES  135 

"Yes,  sir." 

Again  there  was  a  fixed  look  in  each  other's  eyes,  and 
Mr.  Houghton,  with  his  large  knowledge  of  men  and  affairs, 
became  more  distinctly  aware  that  he  was  not  dealing  with 
an  ordinary  character.  He  put  his  thought  in  words,  for  at 
times  he  could  be  very  blunt,  and  he  was  conscious  of  an 
incipient  antagonism  to  Bodine. 

"You  think  you  are  a  Southern  gentleman,  my  equal, 
or  rather,  my  superior,  and  entitled  to  my  respectful  con- 
sideration at  any  hour  of  the  day." 

"I  certainly  think  I  am  a  Southern  gentleman.  I  do  not 
for  a  moment  think  I  am  entitled  to  anything  from  you." 

"Yet  you  come  and  ask  a  favor  with  as  much  dignity  as 
if  you  represented  the  whole  State  of  South  Carolina." 

"No,  sir,  I  represent  only  myself,  and  I  have  asked  no 
favor.  There  are  many  in  your  employ.  I  supposed  your 
relations  with  them  were  those  of  business,  not  of  favor. 

''Well,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Houghton,  coldly,  "there  are 
plenty  with  whom  I  can  enter  into  such  relations  without 
employing  an  enemy  of  my  country." 

"Mr.  Houghton,  I  will  bring  this  interview  to  a  close  at 
once,  and  then  you  can  settle  the  matter  in  a  word.  Your 
country  will  never  receive  any  harm  from  me.  I  am  one  of 
a  conquered  people,  and  I  have  now  no  ambition  other  than 
that  of  earning  bread  for  my  child  and  myself.  You  have 
dealings  with  Southern  men  and  ex- Confederate  soldiers. 
You  buy  from  them  and  sell  to  them.  I,  as  one  of  them, 
ask  nothing  more  than  that  you  should  buy  my  labor  for 
what  it  is  worth  to  you  in  dollars  and  cents.  Eegard  my 
labor  as  a  bale  of  cotton,  and  the  case^is  simple  enough." 

The  lava-crust  over  the  crater  of  the  old  man's  heart  was 
breaking  up,  for  the  interview  was  recalling  all  the  associa- 
tions which  centred  around  the  death  of  his  son.  Captain 
Bodine  evoked  a  strange  mixture  of  antipathy  and  interest. 
There  was  something  in  the  man  which  compelled  his  re- 
spect, and  yet  he  seemed  the  embodiment  of  the  spirit 
which  the  New  Englander  could  neither  understand  nor 


136  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

tolerate.  His  thought  had  travelled  far  beyond  business, 
and  he  looked  at  his  visitor  with  a  certain  wrathful  curios- 
ity. After  a  moment  he  said  abruptly,  "You  fought  through 
the  war,  I  suppose  ?" 

"I  fought  till  I  was  disabled,  sir,  but  I  tried  to  do  a  sol- 
dier's duty  to  the  close  of  the  war." 

"Duty!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Houghton,  with  an  accent  of  in- 
describable bitterness.  "You  would  have  killed  my  son  if 
you  had  met  him  ?' ' 

"Certainly,  if  I  met  him  in  fair  fight  and  he  did  not  kill 
me  first." 

"There  wasn't  any  fair  fight  at  all,"  cried  the  old  man 
passionately.  "It  was  an  atrocious,  wicked,  causeless  re- 
bellion." 

The  dark  blood  mounted  to  Captain  Bodine's  very  brow, 
but  he  controlled  himself  by  a  strong  effort,  and  only  said 
calmly,  "That  is  your  opinion." 

The  veins  fairly  stood  out  on  Mr.  Houghton's  flushed, 
usually  pallid,  face.  "Do  you  know,"  he  almost  hissed, 
"that  my  boy  lies  at  the  bottom  of  your  accursed  harbor 
yonder?" 

"I  did  not  know  it,  sir.  I  do  know  that  the  sons  of 
Southern  fathers  and  the  fathers  themselves  lie  beside 
him." 

"But  what  was  the  use  of  it  all  ?  Damn  the  whole  hor- 
rible crime  I     What  was  the  use  of  it  all  ?" 

A  weaker,  smaller- brained  man  than  Bodine  would  have 
retorted  vehemently  in  kind  and  left  the  place,  but  the  cap- 
tain was  now  on  his  mettle  and  metaphorically  in  the  field 
again,  with  the  foe  before  him.  What  is  more,  he  respected 
his  enemy.  This  Northern  man  did  not  belong  to  the  ex- 
governor  Moses  type.  He  was  outspoken  and  sincere  to  the 
heart's  core  in  his  convictions,  and  moreover  that  heart  was 
bleeding  in  father-love,  from  a  wound  that  could  never  be 
stanched.  Bodine  resolved  to  put  all  passion  under  his 
feet,  to  hold  his  ground  with  the  coolness  and  tenacity  of 
a  general  in  a  battle,  and  attain  his  purpose  without  the 


HONEST  FOES  V61 

slightest  personal  compromise.  His  indomitable  pride  led 
him  to  feel  that  he  would  rather  work  for  this  honest,  im- 
placable foe  than  for  any  man  in  the  city,  because  their  re- 
lations would  be  so  purely  those  of  business,  and  to  bring 
him  to  terms  now  would  be  a  triumph  over  which  he  could 
inwardly  rejoice. 

"Mr.  Houghton,"  he  said,  gravely, "we  have  wandered  far 
from  the  topic  which  I  at  first  introduced.  Your  reference 
to  your  son  proves  that  you  have  a  heart;  your  manage- 
ment of  business  certifies  to  a  large  brain.  I  think  our  con- 
versation has  made  it  clear  that  we  are  both  men  of  decided 
convictions  and  are  not  afraid  to  express  them.  If  you  were 
a  lesser  man  than  you  are,  I  would  have  shrugged  my  shoul- 
ders contemptuously  and  left  your  office  long  ago.  Yet  I 
am  your  equal,  and  you  know  it,  although  I  have  scarcely 
a  penny  in  the  world.  I  am  also  as  honest  as  you  are,  and 
I  would  work  for  you  all  the  more  scrupulously  because 
you  detest  me  and  all  that  I  represent.  I,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  not  expect  a  single  grain  of  allowance  or  con- 
sideration, such  as  I  might  receive  from  a  kindly  disposed 
employer.  We  would  not  compromise  each  other  in  the 
slightest  degree  by  entering  into  the  relations  of  employer 
and  employed.  I  would  obey  your  orders  as  a  soldier  has 
learned  to  obey.  Apart  from  business  we  should  be  stran- 
gers. I  knew  we  were  hostile  in  our  feelings,  but  I  had  the 
impression — which  I  trust  may  be  confirmed — that  you  were 
not  a  commonplace  enemy.  The  only  question  between  us 
is,  'Will  you  buy  my  labor  as  you  would  any  other  com- 
modity in  the  Charleston  market?" 

Captain  Bodine's  words  proved  his  keen  appreciation  of 
character.  The  old  man  unconsciously  possessed  the  spirit 
of  a  soldier,  and  it  had  been  evoked  by  the  honest,  uncom- 
promising attitude  of  the  Southerner.  His  emotion  passed 
away.  His  manner  became  as  courteous  as  it  was  cold  and 
impassive.  "You  are  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "we  are  hostile 
and  will  probably  ever  remain  so,  but  you  have  put  things 
in  a  light  which  enables  me  to  comply  with  your  wishes.     I 


138  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

take  you  at  your  word,  and  will  buy  your  labor  as  I  would 
any  other  article  of  value.  I  know  enough  of  life  to  be 
aware  of  the  courtesy  which  occasionally  exists  between 
men  whose  feelings  and  beliefs  strongly  conflict,  yet  I 
agree  with  you  that,  apart  from  business,  we  can  have  little 
in  common.     When  can  you  come  ?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Are  you  willing  to  leave  the  question  of  compensation 
open  till  I  can  learn  what  your  services  are  actually  worth  ?' ' 

"I  should  prefer  to  have  the  question  settled  in  that 
way. ' ' 

Both  men  arose.  "Good- morning,  Captain  Bodine,"  said 
the  merchant,  bowing  slightly.  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Hough- 
ton," and  the  captain  halted  quietly  back  to  Mrs.  Bodine's 
home  of  faded  gentility. 

Mr.  Houghton  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  leaned  his  head 
thoughtfully  upon  his  hand.  "I  wouldn't  have  believed 
that  I  could  have  done  this,"  he  muttered.  "If  he  had 
knuckled  to  me  one  iota  I  would  have  shown  him  the  door; 
if  he  hadn't  been  so  crippled — if  he  hadn't  been  so  down- 
right honest  and  brave — confound  it!  he  almost  made  me 
feel  both  like  killing  him  and  taking  him  by  the  hand. 
Oh,  Herbert,  my  poor,  lost  boy,  I  don't  wonder  that  you 
and  so  many  fine  fellows  had  to  die  before  such  men  were 
conquered." 


FIRESIDE   DRAMAS  139 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FIRESIDE     DRAMAS 

LLA  was  so  overjoyed  at  her  prospects  when  all  had 
been  explained  to  her,  that  she  insisted  on  Mara's 
spending  the  evening  at  the  Bodines'  so  that  her 
father  might  understand  the  whole  arrangement. 

When  she  returned  early  in  the  afternoon,  she  found 
him,  as  Mara  had  before,  reading  quietly  at  one  of  the  par- 
lor windows.  He  looked  up  with  not  only  glad  welcome  in 
his  eyes,  but  also  with  much  genuine  interest,  for  he  was 
anxious  to  learn  what  further  impression  Mara  had  made 
upon  his  daughter.  The  man  who  had  accepted  patient 
endurance  as  his  lot,  could  scarcely  comprehend  the  pro- 
found impression  made  upon  him  by  the  child  of  his  old 
friend.  He  had  made  no  effort  to  analyze  his  feelings,  not 
dreaming  that  there  was  any  reason  why  he  should  do  this. 
To  his  mind  circumstances  and  the  girl  herself  were  suffi- 
cient to  account  for  the  deepest  sympathy.  Then  that  look 
with  which  she  had  regarded  him  on  the  previous  evening 
— he  could  never  forget  that  while  he  lived.  He  therefore 
regarded  Ella's  flushed,  happy  face,  and  said,  "You  seem 
to  hesitate  in  letting  your  experiences  be  known,  but  I 
reckon,  from  the  sparkle  of  your  eyes,  that  you  have  had 
a  good  time." 

"Oh,  papa,  I  have  had  a  good  time,  so  much  more  than 
a  good  time.  I  hesitate  because  I  don't  know  just  how  or 
where  to  begin — how  to  tell  you  all  the  good  news.  Dear 
papa,  you  have  had  so  many  more  troubles  than  I  have, 
and  some  perhaps  which  you  think  I  do  not  share  in  very 


140  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

deeply.  It  was  best  for  us  both  that  I  did  not — too  deeply. 
Bat  you  have  a  trouble  now  in  which  I  do  share  more  than 
you  know,  more  than  I  wanted  you  to  know.  We  were  here 
dependent  on  our  dear  old  cousin  who  is  so  unselfish  that 
she  would  almost  open  her  poor  old  veins  for  us.  This  was 
too  hard  for  either  of  us  to  endure  very  long,  and  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  do  something  to  relieve 
you— tbat  if  Mara  could  earn  money  I  could." 

*'My  dear  child,  I  appreciate  your  feelings,  and  you  have 
understood  mine,  but  let  me  basten  to  assure  you  that  I 
have  found  a  way  by  which  I  can  support  you  and  myself 
also." 

"You  have?  So  soon?  Oh,  that  is  glorious.  Tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"No,  indeed.  Not  till  I  have  your  wonderful  news,  and 
learn  how  you  enjoyed  your  visit." 

"No  more  visiting  for  me,  or  rather  perpetual  visiting. 
Oh,  papa,  think  what  bliss!  I'm  to  help  Mara,  work  with 
Mara  every  day,  and  have  a  share  in  the  profits." 

The  captain's  face  grew  sad  and  almost  stern.  Ella  un- 
derstood him  instantly,  and  put  her  hand  over  bis  mouth 
as  he  was  about  to  speak.  "Now,  papa,  don't  you  perform 
the  same  little  tragedy  that  I  did.  I  know  just  how  you 
feel  and  what  you  are  going  to  say.  Mara  had  it  in  her 
mind  the  moment  she  heard  I  was  in  town  and — " 

"Ella,"  interrupted  her  father,  firmly,  "I  do  not  often 
cross  you,  but  you  must  let  me  decide  this  question.  Mara 
is  capable  of  any  degree  of  self-sacrifice,  of  even  something 
like  a  noble  deception  in  this  case.  No,  this  cannot  be.  I 
would  protect  that  girl  even  as  I  would  you,  and  you  both 
need  protection  against  your  own  generous  impulses  more 
than  all  else." 

In  vain  she  tried  to  explain,  and  recounted  minutely  all 
that  had  happened.  The  captain  was  so  deeply  touched 
that  his  eyes  grew  dim  with  moisture.  Again  he  exclaimed, 
"  Would  to  God  Sidney  Wallingford  had  lived,  even  though 
poor  and  crippled  as  I  am,  that  he  might  have  worshipped 


FIRESIDE   DRAMAS  1^1 

this  noble-hearted,  generous  girl.  She  has  indeed  a  rare 
nature.  She  carried  out  her  self-sacrificing  purpose  well, 
but  I  understand  her  better  than  you  do,  my  dear.  With 
all  a  woman's  wit,  tact,  and  heart  she  deceived  you  and  would 
deceive  us  all.  She  would  smile  in  triumph  as  she  denied 
herself  for  our  sakes  what  she  most  needed.  But,  Ella,  you 
know  we  cannot  let  her  do  this." 

The  girl  was  staggered  and  in  sore  perplexity.  Her 
father's  view  was  not  pleasing  to  her  ingenuous  nature; 
there  had  been  a  sincerity  in  Mara's  words  and  manner 
which  had  been  confirmed  not  only  by  circumstances,  but 
also  by  Aun'  Sheba's  hearty  approval.  "I  shall  be  sorry 
if  what  you  think  is  true,"  she  said,  sadly.  "I  don't  wish 
iQ  be  deceived,  not  even  from  such  motives  as  you  attribute 
to  Mara,  and,  of  course,  she  could  have  no  others  if  you  are 
right.  But  how  can  you  be  right  ?  There  was  such  a  verity 
about  it  all.  Why,  papa,  when  at  first  I  imagined  that  Mara 
might  have  thought  I  had  been  hinting  in  my  very  foolish 
talk  that  I  wished  what  afterward  took  place,  I  was  so  over- 
whelmed with  shame  that  I  could  hardly  speak.  If  you  had 
seen  how  she  reassured  me,  and  heard  her  earnest  words, 
declaring  she  needed  me— oh,  if  that  was  all  deception,  even 
from  the  kindest  and  noblest  motive,  I  should  be  wounded 
to  the  heart,  I  could  never  be  sure  of  Mara  again  and  scarcely 
of  any  one  else.  I  can't  think  as  you  do.  Let  us  ask  Cousin 
and  see  what  she  thinks." 

The  captain  was  now  in  perplexity  himself,  yet  he  held 
to  his  first  impression.  ''I  admit,"  he  said,  hesitatingly, 
"that  it  was  not  the  wisest  course  on  Mara's  part,  yet  often 
the  best  people,  especially  when  young,  ardent,  and  a  little 
morbid,  are  led  by  the  noblest  motives  to  do  what  is  unwise 
and  scarcely  right.  Mara  is  not  an  ordinary  girl,  and  can- 
not be  judged  by  common  standards.  Be  assured,  she  would 
die  rather  than  deceive  you  to  your  harm,  but  a  purpose  to 
do  you  good  might  confuse  both  her  judgment  and  con- 
science, especially  if  it  involved  self-sacrifice  on  her  part. 
You  must  not  blame  me  if  I  wish  to  be  more  thoroughly 


142  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

convinced.  Yes,  you  can  ask  Cousin  Sophy's  opinion  \i 
you  wish." 

"Then  come  with  me,  papa,  and  state  your  case  as 
strongly  as  you  can.  I'd  rather  go  hungry  than  go  forward 
another  step  if  you  are  right." 

The  wise  old  lady,  who  could  talk  by  the  hour  on  most 
occasions,  listened  to  both  sides  of  the  question  and  then 
remarked  with  sphinx-like  ambiguity,  "Your  father,  Ella, 
has  obtained  a  remarkably  correct  idea  of  Mara's  charac- 
ter. You  know  I  told  her  in  your  hearing  that  she  had  a 
passion  for  self-sacrifice,  and  was  prone  to  take  a  morbid 
sense  of  duty.  At  the  same  time,  I  do  not  by  any  means 
say  he  is  right  in  this  particular  instance.  Mara  is  coming 
this  evening — let  her  satisfy  you  both  in  her  own  way.  I 
have  my  opinion,  but  would  rather  she  would  make  the 
matter  plain  to  you." 

The  shrewd  old  lady,  to  whom  the  wheels  of  time  often 
seemed  to  move  slowly,  was  bent  on  a  bit  of  drama  at  her 
own  fireside,  at  the  same  time  believing  that  a  word,  a  tone, 
or  even  a  glance  from  the  young  girl  herself  would  have 
more  power  to  banish  the  captain's  doubts  than  anything 
she  could  say.  "And  yet,"  thought  Mrs.  Bodine,  "Mara  is 
capable  of  just  this  very  kind  of  dissimulation." 

Evening  in  the  South  differs  slightly  from  our  late  after- 
noon, and  the  sun  was  scarcely  below  the  horizon  when 
Mara  arrived  under  the  escort  of  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  had 
also  been  invited.  Therefore  Ella  in  her  feverish  impa- 
tience had  not  long  to  wait. 

Mrs.  Bodine' s  simple  meal  was  over,  and  after  having 
had  a  fire  lighted  on  the  parlor  hearth,  she  had  ensconced 
herself  in  a  low  rocking-chair  in  readiness  to  receive  her 
guests.  There  was  a  sort  of  stately  cordiality  in  the  meet- 
ing between  her  and  Mrs.  Hunter,  quiet  courtesy  on  the  part 
of  Captain  Bodine  toward  all,  while  honest  Ella  could  not 
banish  a  slight  constraint  from  her  manner.  Mara  gradually 
became  conscious  of  this  and  wondered  at  it.     She  also  soon 


FIRESIDE   DRAMAS  143 

observed  that  no  reference  was  made  to  the  compact  of  the 
morning,  and  this  perplexed  her  still  more. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Bodine,  having  all  the  dramatis  personae 
about  her,  was  complacency  embodied,  and  not  averse  to 
taking  a  part  in  the  little  play  herself.  She  managed  at 
first  that  the  conversation  should  be  general.  She  serenely 
indulged  in  reminiscences  which  waked  others  from  Mrs. 
Hunter,  and  even  the  captain  was  beguiled  into  half- humor- 
ous old-time  anecdotes  about  some  one  they  all  knew. 

"Well,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bodine,  sighing,  "that — oh, 
good  gracious !  what  was  I  going  to  say  ?  Cousin  Hugh, 
you  can  remember  that  my  most  excellent  husband  accus- 
tomed me  to  rather  strong  adjectives.  Well,  that  hard- 
hearted old  wretch,  Mr.  Houghton,  eventually  got  all  the 
property  of  the  poor  man  we  were  talking  about." 

"Did  he?"  said  the  captain,  quietly.  "Well,  I  reckon 
I'll  get  some  of  it  back  again." 

"You?  I'd  like  to  know  how.  He'd  take  your  head 
off  at  one  bite  if  he  could." 

"I  reckon  he  would;  he  looked  so  inclined  this  morning. 
I  spent  half  an  hour  alone  with  him  this  morning,  and  am 
■going  to  work  for  him  to-morrow." 

The  general  exclamations  amounted  to  a  chorus,  and 
Mrs.  Hunter,  bridling,  began  formally  and  almost  severely, 
"Pardon  me.  Captain  Bodine,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  presum- 
ing or  officious,  but  I  fear  you  have  been  absent  from  the 
city  so  long  that  you  are  not  aware  of  the  general  estimation 
in  which  this  Northern  carpet-bagger  is  held." 

"I  certainly  have  had  a  chance  to  form  my  own  opinion 
of  him,  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  I  reckon  that  he  and  I  will  not  be 
any  better  friends  than  he  and  you  would  be." 

"Friends,"  ejaculated  the  old  lady,  "I  could  annihilate 
him.  Oh,  Captain  Bodine,  believe  me,  you  have  made  a 
mistake.  What  will  be  left  of  our  past  if  the  best  and 
bravest  of  our  number  strike  hands  with  these  vampires 
of  the  North?" 


144  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"I  have  not  struck  hands  with  him,  nor  do  I  ever  ex- 
pect to. ' ' 

"Hugh,  Cousin  Hugh,"  protested  Mrs.  Bodine,  "I  don't 
understand  this  move  at  all." 

"Papa,"  cried  Ella,  with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  "you 
have  done  this  for  my  sake,  so  do  please  give  it  up  for  my 
sake.     Some  other  way  will  be  provided  for  us." 

"Mara,  are  you,  too,  down  on  me?" 

"No,  sir,  never;  but  I'll  share  my  last  crust  with  you  if 
you  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  man. ' ' 

"I  thought  so,  you  brave,  generous  girl.  That  was  like 
your  father,  and  reminds  me  of  a  bit  of  experience.  We 
were  on  a  forced  march,  and  the  provision  train  had  not 
kept  up.  It  was  night,  and  we  were  too  weary  to  hunt 
around  for  a  morsel.  Wallingford  (he  was  major  then) 
came  to  me  and  said,  'Bodine,  I've  a  hard  tack  and  one 
cup  of  coffee.  We'll  go  halves,'  and  so  we  did.  He  was  so 
impolite  as  to  take  his  half  first.     Do  you  know  why  ?" 

"I  can  guess,"  she  replied  with  downcast  brimming  eyes. 

"I  reckon  you  can — you  of  all  others;  but  he  didn't  suc- 
ceed. I  turned  on  him  in  mock  severity  and  remarked, 
*Major  Wallingford,  I  never  thought  you  would  try  to  over- 
reach an  old  friend.  See,  you  have  scarcely  taken  over  a 
third  of  the  coffee  and  hard  tack.'  He  slapped  me  on  the 
back  and  declared  he  would  have  me  arrested  for  insubor- 
dinate and  disrespectful  language.  Considering  what  sleepy, 
jaded  men  we  were,  we  had  a  lot  of  fun  over  that  meagre 
banquet,  but  he  had  to  yield  even  if  he  were  my  superior. 
I  fear  you  are  inclined  to  go  halves  just  like  your  father." 

"Well,  Hugh,"  cried  Mrs.  Bodine  impatiently,  "even 
that  is  better  than  your  taking  whatever  this — this — I  want 
an  adjective  that  is  not  too  wicked." 

"No  matter.  Cousin  Sophy,  we'll  each  supply  one  ac- 
cording to  our  own  degree  of  wickedness.  A  Yankee  would 
say  'darned'  though,  confound  the  fellows,  they  seem  to 
learn  to  fight  and  swear  in  equal  degrees." 

"I  won't  say  'darned,'  "  said  the  old  lady,  almost  trem- 


FIRESIDE   DRAMAS 


145 


bling  in  her  irritation  and  excitement,  for  she  was  being 
treated  to  more  of  a  drama  than  she  had  bargained  for. 
''It  is  a  word  I  never  heard  my  husband  use.  Bahl  all 
words  are  inadequate.  I  say  anything  is  better  than  that 
you  should  go  to  this  old  Houghton  for  what  little  he  may 
choose  to  give  you. ' ' 

"Now,  I  appeal  to  you,  Mara— is  this  fair,  four  against 

one?" 

"But,  dear  Captain  Bodine,  you  don't  know  how  deeply 

we  feel  about  this. " 

"Ah,  that  is  the  charge  our  enemies  bring  against  us. 
We  feel,  but  don't  reason,  they  say.    We  have  much  reason 
to  retort,  'You  reason,  but  have  no  feeling  and  little  com- 
prehension for  those  that  have.'     Come,  I  will  be  serious 
now,"  and  his  expression  became  grave  and  firm.     *' Cousin 
Sophy,  Mr.  Houghton   will   never   give   me  a  penny,  nor 
would  I  take  a  gift  from  him  even  if  starving,  yet  1  have 
a  genuine  respect  for  the  man.     Let  me,  as  a  soldier,  illus- 
trate my  course,  and  then  I  will  explain  more  fully.     Sup- 
pose I  was  on  a  march  and  was  hungry.     On  one  hand  were 
ample  provisions  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy;  on  the  other 
a  small  farmhouse  occupied  by  friends  who  had  already 
been  robbed  of  nearly  all  they  had.     If  I  went  to  these 
friends  they  would,  as  Mara  has  said,  share  their  last  crust. 
Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  more  in  accordance  with  the 
feelings  of  a  man  to  make  a  dash  at  the  enemy's  overflowing 
larder,  and  not  only  get  what  I  needed  but  also  bring  away 
something  for  my  impoverished  friends  ?    I  reckon  it  would. 
I  much  prefer  spoiling  the  Egyptians,  cost  me  what  it  may. 
My  dear  child,"  turning  to  Mara,  "do  you  think  I  would 
take  half  your  crust  when  I  know  you  need  the  whole  of 
it?     No,  indeed.     Then  you  must  remember  that  we  got  in 
the  habit  of  living  off  the  enemy  during  the  war.     To  drop 
all  this  figurative  talk,  let  me  put  the  matter  in  plain  En- 
glish, as  I  did  to  Mr.  Houghton  this  morning.     We  had  a 
pretty  hot  action,  I  can  tell  you.    There  was  no  compromise 
in  word  or  manner  on  either  side,  but  he  listened  to  reason, 

G— Roe— XV 


146  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

and  so  will  you.  Pick  out  your  most  blue-blooded,  stanch- 
est  South  Carolinians,  in  the  city,  and  they  deal  with  Mr. 
Houghton.  They  sell  to  him;  they  buy  of  him,  and  there 
it  all  ends.  I  have  no  cotton  to  sell,  but  I  told  him  to  re- 
gard my  labor  as  a  bale  of  cotton  and  to  buy  it,  if  he  so 
wished,  at  what  it  was  worth.  I  also  told  him  that  apart 
from  our  business  relations  we  would  be  strangers,  so  you 
see  I  am  neither  better  nor  worse,  practically,  no  different 
from  other  Charlestonians. " 

Mrs.  Bodine  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  laughed  till 
the  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "I  do  declare,"  she  gasped: 
''God  made  men  different  from  women,  and  I  reckon  He 
knew  what  He  was  about.  I  surrender,  Cousin  Hugh. 
Your  argument  has  blown  me  out  of  the  water.  Spoil 
this  old  Egyptian  to  your  heart's  content,  only  remember 
when  there  are  no  Egyptians  to  spoil,  if  you  don't  come  to 
your  friends  you  will  have  one  savage  old  woman  to  deal 
with." 

Mrs.  Hunter  shook  her  head  dubiously.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  think  of  all  this,"  she  said.  ''It  appears  to  me  that 
it  tends  to  break  down  the  partition  wall  between  us  and 
those  from  whom  we  have  received  wrongs  which  should 
never  be  forgiven." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Hunter,"  replied  the  captain,  urbanely, 
"the  more  the  partition  wall  is  broken  down  in  one  sense, 
the  better.  Isn't  it  wiser  for  me  to  get  money  out  of  Mr. 
Houghton  than  to  sulk  and  starve  ?  I  had  to  break  through 
the  wall  to  get  bread.  Of  course,"  he  added  quietly,  "we 
all  understand  one  another.  My  military  figures  of  speech 
must  not  be  pressed  too  far.  I  do  not  propose  to  knock 
Mr.  Houghton  on  the  head,  or  even  take  the  smallest  pos- 
sible advantage  of  him.  On  the  contrary,  because  we  are 
hostile,  I  shall  be  over-scrupulous,  if  possible,  to  do  his 
work  well.  From  him,  as  I  told  him,  I  expect  not  the 
slightest  allowance,  consideration,  or  kindness." 

"Oh,"  thought  Mara,  "how  clearly  he  has  put  my  own 
thought  and  wish.     Why  could   not   Owen   Clancy  have 


FIRESIDE    DRAMAS  147 

earned  his  own  bread  and  mine  by  taking  the  course  of 
this  brave  Southern  man  ?  1  have  been  shown  to-night 
how  noble,  how  dignified  and  how  easy  it  was.  Why 
should  he  talk  of  love  when  he  will  not  see  what  is  so 
reasonable  in  the  action  of  another?" 

"Cousin  Hugh,  you  said  one  thing  which  needs  expla- 
nation. You  said  you  had  a  respect  for  this  man  Houghton, 
who  we  all  know  has  not  a  particle  of  good- will  toward  us." 

"Chiefly  because  he  is  such  an  honest  enemy, "  Bodine 
replied.  "He  makes  hard  bargains  with  our  people  when 
he  can,  but  have  you  ever  heard  of  his  cheating  or  doing 
anything  underhand  ?  I  learned  a  good  deal  about  his  busi- 
ness character  while  in  Georgia,  and  his  course  to-day  cor- 
responded with  what  I  had  been  told.  Moreover,  his  feel- 
ings got  the  better  of  him,  and  he  revealed  in  one  passionate 
sentence  that  his  eldest  son  was  killed,  and,  as  he  says,  lies 
at  the  bottom  of  our  harbor  here.  This  fact  enabled  me  to 
stand  better  what  I  had  to  take  from  him,"  and  in  answer 
to  his  cousin's  questions  he  revealed  the  substance  of  the 
interview.  "I  do  this,"  he  concluded,  "that  you  and  other 
friends  may  better  understand  my  course.  To-morrow  Mr. 
Houghton  becomes  my  employer,  and  I  shall  owe  a  certain 
kind  of  loyalty.  The  more  seldom  we  mention  his  name 
thereafter,  the  better;  and  I  shall  never  speak  of  him  except 
in  terms  of  cold  respect." 

"Since  you  have  told  me  about  his  son,"  said  Mrs. 
Bodine,  "I  won't  avail  myself  of  the  privilege  of  freeing 
my  mind  to-night,  even  if  it  will  be  my  last  chance,  that 
is  when  you  are  present.  After  all,  why  should  I  berate 
him  ?  In  one  aspect  he  is  to  me  a  sort  of  ogre  representing 
all  that  is  harsh,  intolerant  and  cruel,  rejoicing  in  his  power 
to  drain  the  life-blood  of  a  conquered  and  impoverished 
people;  yet  he  rose  before  me  as  you  spoke  as  a  heart- 
broken father,  warped  and  made  unnatural  by  pain,  haunted 
by  the  ghost  of  his  son  whom  his  arms  cannot  embrace. 
Sometimes  when  thinking  alone,  the  people  of  the  world 
seem  like  a  lot  of  squabbling  children,  with  only  degrees 


148  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

of  badness  and  goodness  between  them.  Children  make  no 
allowances  for  each  other.  It  is  like  or  dislike,  quick  and 
manifested.  It  is  well  there  is  a  Heavenly  Father  over  all 
who  may  lead  one  and  all  of  us  'to  make  up'  some  day. 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Hugh,  we  may  all  have  to  shake  hands 
in  Heaven." 

"Like  enough.  Cousin  Sophy,  la  matters  pertaining  to 
Heaven  you  are  a  better  authority  than  I  am." 

"For  very  good  reason.  Heaven  is  nearest  those  who 
feel  its  need  most.  You  may  think  I  am  a  queer  Christian, 
and  I  sometimes  think  so  myself — hating  some  people  as 
near  as  I  dare,  and  calling  old  Houghton  a  wretch.  Don't 
I  know  about  his  heartache?  Who  better  than  I?  God 
knows  I  would  give  his  son  back  to  him  if  I  could. 
God  knows  I  can  almost  swear  at  him;  He  knows  also 
that  if  he  were  brought  into  this  house  wounded  I'd  nurse 
him  with  my  feeble  hand  as  I  would  you,  Cousin  Hugh, 
but  I  would  be  apt  to  say  when  he  got  well  (and  here 
came  in  her  little  chirping  laugh),  'Good  sir,  I  have  not  the 
slightest  objection  to  your  going  back  to  Massachusetts, 
bag  and  baggage.'  By  the  way,  he  has  another  son  who 
has  not  been  much  in  Charleston — being  educated  at  the 
North,  they  say.  He  must  be  a  grown  man  now.  I  was 
told  that  when  here  last  he  resented  the  fact  bitterly  that 
there  was  some  society  in  town  which  he  could  not  enter." 

"I  reckon  not,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hunter,  grimly,  and  then 
followed  some  desultory  conversation  between  the  two  elder 
ladies. 

As  was  frequently  his  custom — in  common  with  men 
whose  past  is  more  than  their  future  promises  to  be — the 
captain  had  lapsed  into  a  train  of  thought  which  took  him 
far  away  from  present  surroundings.  He  was  roused  by  Mrs. 
Hunter's  preparations  for  departure,  and  looking  suddenly 
at  Mara,  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  He  was 
at  her  side  instantly,  and,  taking  her  hand,  asked  gently, 
"What  troubles  you,  my  child?" 

With  bowed  head  she  replied:  "I  understand  you,  Cap- 


FIRESIDE    DRAMAS  149 

tain  Bodine;  your  words  have  made  everything  clear 
to  me. ' ' 

He  still  held  her  hand  and  thought  a  moment.  "About 
Ella's  coming  to  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I'm  not  one  of  the  Egyptians,  but  I'd  so  set  my 
heart  on  it. ' ' 

"Because  oi  your  need,  not  Ella's?"  again  the  captain 
queried,  while  his  grasp  on  her  hand  tightened. 

"Oh,  Captain  Bodine,  do  you  think  I  could  deceive  you 
or  a  girl  like  Ella  under  any  circumstances?  If  she  did  not 
come  after  to-day  I  feel  that  I  should  give  up  in  despair 
very  soon.  I  do  need  help,  and  just  such  help  to  body  and 
mind  as  she  can  give  me." 

"Forgive  me,  Mara.  The  little  story  1  told  about  your 
father  explains  why  I  feared.  But  we  will  say  no  more 
about  it.  I  would  rather  have  Ella  with  you  than  with  any 
one  else  in  the  world." 

"There,"  cried  that  buoyant  young  woman,  "I  knew  I 
was  right.  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  you 
old  people  are  destined  to  learn  wisdom." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine,  "I've  had  more  drama  to- 
night than  I  reckoned  on,  and  I  haven't  been  leading  lady 
either.  Will  the  chief  baker  escort  me  to  the  dining- 
room?" 

After  cake  and  cream,  the  captain  escorted  Mrs.  Hunter 
and  Mara  home.  He  detained  the  latter  at  the  door  a  mo- 
ment, and  said  gently,  "Mara,  shun  the  chief  danger  of 
your  life.     Never  be  unfair  to  yourself." 


150  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

A      FAIR     DUELLIST 

THE  great  hand  of  time  which  turns  the  kaleidoscope 
of  human  affairs  appeared  to  move  slowly  for  a  few 
weeks,  as  far  as  the  characters  of  my  story  are  con- 
cerned. The  two  little  bakers  worked  together  daily,  one 
abounding  in  mirth  and  drollery,  and  the  other  cheered, 
or  rather  beguiled  from  melancholy  in  spite  of  herself. 
Business  grew  apace,  not  only  because  two  girls  who 
evoked  general  sympathy  were  the  principals  of  the  firm, 
but  also  for  the  reason  that  they  put  something  of  their  own 
dainty  natures  into  their  wares.  Aun'  Sheba  trudged  and 
perspired  in  moderation,  for  the  fleet-footed  Vilet  seemed 
to  outrun  Mercury.  Moreover,  the  "head-pahners,"  as 
Aun'  Sheba  called  them,  insisted  that  their  commercial 
travellers  should  take  the  street-cars  when  long  distances 
were  involved. 

Captain  Bodine  and  Mr.  Houghton  maintained  their  busi- 
ness relation  in  the  characteristic  manner  indicated  by  their 
first  interview.  The  ex-Confederate  was  given  some  routine 
work  which  kept  him  at  a  remote  desk  a  certain  number  of 
hours  a  day,  and  employer  and  employe  rarely  met,  and 
scarcely  ever  spoke  to  each  other.  The  captain,  however, 
had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  salary,  which  was  paid 
weekly,  and  sufficed  for  his  modest  needs.  So  far  from 
being  dependent  on  his  large-hearted  cousin,  he  and  Ella 
were  enabled  to  contribute  much  to  her  material  comfort, 
and  immeasurably  to  her  daily  enjoyment.  She  and  Ella 
were  in  the  sunshine  again,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  which 


A   FAIR   DUELLIST  151 

of  the  two  talked  the  most  genial  nonsense.  The  old  lady 
had  what  is  termed  "a  sweet  tooth,"  and  loved  dainties. 
The  two  girls,  therefore,  vied  with  each  other  in  evolvincy 
rare  and  harmless  delicacies. 

''Two  Ariels  are  ministering  to  me,"  she  said,  "and 
sometimes  I  feel  so  jolly  that  I  would  like  to  share  with 
that  old — I  mean  Mr.  Houghton." 

The  girls  never  forgot,  however,  the  depths  beneath  the 
ripple  and  sparkle  of  the  old  lady's  manner. 

As  spring  verged  into  summer,  Uncle  Sheba  yielded 
more  and  more  to  the  lassitude  of  the  season.  His  "bob- 
scure  'fliction"  seemed  to  grow  upon  him,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible to  note  degrees  in  his  malady,  but  Aun'  Sheba  said, 
"  'Long  as  he  is  roun'  like  a  log  an'  don'  bodder  me  I  is 
use'  ter  it."  He  even  began  to  neglect  the  "prar-meetin'," 
and  old  Tobe  told  him  to  his  face,  "You'se  back-slidin'  fur 
as  you  kin  slide,  inch  or  so."  His  son-in-law,  Kern  Wat- 
son, had  won  such  a  good  reputation  for  steadiness  that  he 
was  taken  into  the  fire  department.  When  off  duty  he  was 
always  with  "Sissy  an'  de  chilen." 

Outwardly  there  was  but  slight  change  in  Owen  Clancy. 
He  had  never  been  inclined  to  make  many  intimate  acquain- 
tances, and  those  who  knew  him  best  only  noted  that  he 
seemed  more  reserved  about  himself  if  possible,  and  that  he 
was  unusually  devoted  to  business.  Yet  he  was  much  spoken 
of  in  business  circles,  for  it  was  known  that  he  was  the  chief 
correspondent  of  the  wealthy  Mr.  Ainsley  of  New  York, 
who  was  making  large  investments  in  the  South.  Among 
the  progressive  men  of  the  city,  no  matter  what  might  be 
their  political  faith  and  association,  the  young  man  was 
winning  golden  opinions,  for  it  was  clearly  recognized  that 
he  ever  had  the  interest  of  his  section  at  heart,  that  in  a 
straightforward,  honorable  manner  he  was  making  every 
effort  to  enlist  Northern  capital  in  Southern  enterprises. 
He  had  withdrawn  almost  wholly  from  social  life,  and 
ladies  saw  him  but  seldom  in  their  drawing-rooms.  When 
among  men,  however,  he  talked  earnestly  and  sagaciously 


152  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

on  the  business  topics  of  the  hour.  The  evening  usually 
found  him  with  book  in  hand  in  his  bachelor  apartment. 

Beneath  all  this  ordinary  ebb  and  flow  of  daily  life, 
changes  were  taking  place,  old  forces  working  silently,  and 
new  ones  entering  in  to  complicate  the  problems  of  the  fu» 
ture.  As  unobtrusively  as  possible,  Clancy  kept  himself  in- 
formed about  Mara  and  all  that  related  to  her  welfare.  By 
some  malign  fate,  as  she  deemed  it,  she  would  unexpectedly 
hear  of  him,  encounter  him  on  the  street,  also,  yet  rarely 
now,  meet  him  at  some  small  evening  company.  He  would 
permit  no  open  estrangement,  and  always  compelled  her  to 
recognize  him.  One  evening,  to  her  astonishment  and  mo- 
mentary confusion  he  quietly  took  a  seat  by  her  side  and 
entered  into  conversation,  as  he  might  have  done  with  other 
ladies  present.  By  neither  tone  nor  glance  did  he  recognize 
any  cause  for  estrangement  between  them,  and  he  talked  so 
intelligently  and  agreeably  as  to  compel  her  admiration. 
His  mask  was  perfect,  and  after  an  instant  hers  was  equally 
so,  yet  all  the  time  she  was  as  conscious  of  his  love  as  of 
her  own. 

He  recognized  the  new  element  which  the  Bodines  had 
brought  into  her  life,  and  with  a  lover's  keen  instinct  began 
to  surmise  what  the  captain  might  become  to  her.  He  was 
not  long  in  discovering  the  former  relations  of  the  veteran 
to  Colonel  Wallingford,  and  he  justly  believed  that,  as  yet, 
Mara's  regard  was  largely  the  result  of  that  old  friendship 
and  an  entire  accordance  in  views.  But  he  was  not  so  sure 
about  Bodine,  whom  he  knew  but  slightly  and  with  whom 
he  had  no  sympathy.  He  had  learned  substantially  the 
ground  on  which  the  captain  had  taken  employment  from 
Mr.  Houghton,  and  as  we  know,  he  w^s  bitterly  hostile  to 
that  whole  line  of  policy.  "It  would  eventually  turn  every 
Southern  man  into  a  clerk,"  he  muttered,  "when  it  is  our 
patriotic  duty  to  lead  in  business  as  in  everything  else  that 
pertains  to  our  section. ' '  Yet  he  knew,  or  at  least  believed, 
that  if  he  had  taken  the  same  course  Mara  might  now  be  his 
wife. 


A    FAIR    DUELLIST  158 

Sometimes,  when  reading,  apparently,  he  would  throw 
down  his  book  and  say  aloud  in  his  solitude,  ''Bah,  I'm 
more  loyal  to  the  South  than  this  sombre-faced  veteran. 
He  would  keep  his  State  forever  in  his  own  crippled  con- 
diiton.  No  crutches  for  the  South,  I  say;  no  general  clerk- 
ship to  the  North,  but  an  equal  onward  march,  side  by  side, 
to  one  national  destiny.  He  thinks  he  is  a  martyr  and  may 
very  complacently  let  Mara  think  so  too.  Who  has  given 
up  the  more  ?     He  a  leg,  and  I  my  heart's  love!" 

It  has  already  been  shown  that  Clancy  touched  the  ex- 
tremes of  political  and  social  life  in  the  city.  Some,  of 
whom  Mrs.  Hunter  was  an  exasperated  exponent,  could  be 
cold  toward  him,  but  they  could  neither  ignore  nor  despise 
him.  Those  beginning  to  cast  off  the  fetters  of  enmity  and 
prejudice,  secretly  admired  him  and  were  friendly.  While 
cordial  in  his  relations,  therefore,  with  Northern  people  and 
Northern  enterprises  of  the  right  stamp,  he  had  not  so  lost 
his  hold  on  Mara's  exclusive  circle  as  to  remain  in  igno- 
rance of  what  was  transpiring  within  it,  and  he  secretly  re- 
solved that  if  Bodine  sought  to  take  the  girl  of  his  heart 
from  him,  and,  as  he  truly  believed,  from  all  chance  of  true 
happiness  herself,  he  would  give  as  earnest  a  warning  as  ever 
one  soul  gave  to  another. 

In  June  he  received  a  strong  diversion  to  his  thoughts. 
Mr.  Ainsley  wrote  him  from  New  York,  in  effect,  that  he 
with  his  daughter  would  soon  be  in  Charleston — that  his  in- 
terests in  the  South  had  become  so  large  as  to  require  per- 
sonal attention;  also  that  he  had  new  enterprises  in  view. 
The  young  man's  interest  and  ambition  were  naturally 
kindled.  As  Mara  had  taken  the  Bodines  and  their  aSairs 
as  an  antidote  for  her  trouble,  he  sought  relief  in  the  preoc- 
cupation which  the  Ainsleys  might  bring  to  his  mind.  Ac- 
cordmgly  he  met  father  and  daughter  at  the  station  and  es- 
corted them  to  the  hotel  with  some  degree  of  pleasurable 
excitement. 

Miss  Ainsley  made  the  same  impression  of  remarkable 
beauty  and  cosmopolitan  culture  as  at  first.     There  was  a 


154  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

refined,  easy  poise  in  her  bearing.  Indeed  he  almost  fancied 
that,  to  her  mind,  coming  to  Charleston  was  a  sort  of  con- 
descension, she  had  visited  so  many  famous  cities  in  the 
world.  She  greeted  him  cordially,  and  to  a  vain  man  her 
brilliant  eyes  would  have  expressed  more  than  the  mere 
pleasure  of  seeing  an  old  acquaintance  again. 

But  few  days  elapsed  before  Mr.  Ainsley  was  on  the 
wing,  here  and  there  where  his  interests  called  him,  mean- 
time making  the  Charleston  hotel  his  headquarters.  Miss 
Ainsley's  friend,  Mrs.  Willoughby,  carried  ofi  the  daughter 
to  her  pretty  home  on  the  Battery,  where  sea-breezes  tem- 
pered the  Southern  sun.  Clancy  aided  the  father  satisfac- 
torily in  business  ways,  and  the  daughter  found  him  so 
agreeable  socially  as  to  manifest  a  wish  to  see  him  often. 
She  interested  him  as  a  ''rara  avis''  which  he  felt  that  he 
would  like  to  understand  better,  and  he  would  have  been 
less  than  a  man  if  not  fascinated  by  her  beauty,  accomplish- 
ments and  intelligence.  Miss  Ainsley  could  not  fail  to 
charm  the  eyes  of  sense  as  well,  and  she  was  not  chary  of 
the  secret  that  she  had  been  fashioned  in  one  of  Nature's 
finest  molds.  The  soft,  warm  languor  of  the  summer  even- 
ings was,  to  her,  ample  excuse  for  revealing  the  glowing 
marble  of  her  neck  and  bosom  to  dark  Southern  eyes,  and 
admirers  began  to  gather  like  bees  to  honey  ready  made. 

Clancy  had  wished  to  see  her  deportment  toward  other 
young  men,  and  now  had  the  opportunity.  The  result  flat- 
tered him  in  spite  of  himself.  To  others  she  was  courteous, 
aSable  and  sublimely  indifferent.  When  he  approached  it 
seemed  almost  as  if  a  film  passed  from  her  eyes,  that  she 
awakened  into  a  fuller  life  and  became  an  enchantress  in 
her  versatile  powers.  He  responded  with  as  fine  a  courtesy 
as  her  own,  although  quite  different,  but  there  was  a  cool, 
steady  self-restraint  in  eyes  and  manner  which  piqued  and 
charmed  her. 

Clancy  would  be  long  in  learning  to  understand  Miss 
Ainsley.  He  might  never  reach  the  secret  of  her  life,  and 
certainly  would  not  unless  he  bluntly  asked  her  to  marry 


A    FAIR    DUELLIST  155 

him — asked  her  so  bluntly  and  persistently  that  all  the 
wiles  of  which  woman  is  capable  opened  no  avenue  of  es- 
cape. She  was  an  epicure  of  the  finest  type.  If  she  had 
been  asked  to  a  banquet  on  Mount  Olympus,  she  would 
have  preferred  to  dine  from  the  one  delicious  dish  of  am- 
brosia most  to  her  taste  and  to  sip  only  the  choicest  brand 
of  nectar.  Profusion,  even  at  a  feast  of  the  gods,  would 
have  no  charms  for  her.  She  had  begun  to  see  the  world 
so  early  and  had  seen  so  much  of  it  that  she  had  learned  the 
art  of  elimination  to  perfection.  Sensuous  to  the  last  de- 
gree, but  not  sensual,  she  had  a  cool  self-control  and  a  fine- 
ness of  taste  which  led  her  to  choose  but  a  few  refined  pleas- 
ures at  a  time  and  then  to  enjoy  them  deliberately  and  until 
satiety  pointed  to  a  new  choice.  Keen  of  intellect,  she  had 
studied  society  and  with  almost  the  skill  of  a  naturalist  had 
recognized  the  various  types  of  men  and  women.  This  cool 
observation  had  taught  her  much  worldly  wisdom.  She  saw 
all  about  her,  mere  girls  Jaded  with  life  already,  faded  young 
women  keeping  up  with  the  fashionable  procession  as  fagged 
out  soldiers  drag  themselves  along  in  the  rear  of  a  column. 
She  had  seen  fresh  young  debutantes  rush  into  the  giddy 
whirl  to  become  pallid  from  the  excess  of  one  season.  At 
one  time,  she  and  other  friends  of  hers  had  been  exultant, 
excited  and  distracted  by  their  many  admirers  and  suitors. 
She  soon  wearied,  however,  of  this  indiscriminate  slaughter, 
and  the  devoted  eager  attentions,  the  manifest  desires  and 
hopes  of  commonplace  men,  so  far  from  kindling  a  sense  of 
triumph  and  power,  almost  made  her  ill.  She  became  like 
a  knight  of  the  olden  time  who  had  hewn  down  inferiors 
until  he  was  sick  of  gore. 

And  so  she  gradually  withdrew  from  the  fashionable 
rout,  took  time  for  reading  and  study  and  the  perfection  of 
her  accomplishments.  She  accepted  merely  such  invita- 
tions as  were  agreeable  to  her,  smiling  contemptuously  at 
the  idea  that  in  order  to  maintain  position  in  society  one 
must  wear  herself  out  by  rushing  around  to  everything; 
and  society  respected  her  all  the  more.     It  became  a  tri- 


156  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Timph  to  secure  her  presence;  but  she  only  went  where 
everything  would  accord  with  her  taste  and  inclination. 
This  was  true  of  her  life  abroad  as  well  as  at  home.  Con- 
scious of  her  father's  wealth,  and  that,  apart  from  an  unex- 
acting  companionship  to  him,  she  could  do  as  she  pleased, 
she  proposed  to  make  the  most  of  life  as  she  estimated  it. 
She  would  have  all  the  variety  she  wished,  but  she  would 
take  it  leisurely.  She  would  not  perpetrate  the  folly  of 
gulping  pleasures,  still  less  would  she  permit  herself  to  fall 
tumultuously  in  love  with  some  ordinary  man  only  to  waken 
from  a  romantic  dream  to  discover  how  ordinary  he  was. 

She  was  also  too  shrewd,  indeed  one  may  almost  say  too 
wise,  to  think  of  an  ambitious  marriage.  The  man  of  mil- 
lions or  the  man  of  rank  or  fame  could  never  buy  her  un- 
less personally  agreeable  to  her.  Yet  she  was  rarely  with- 
out a  suitor,  whom  to  a  certain  point  she  encouraged. 
Unless  a  man  possessed  some  real  or  fancied  superiority 
which  pleased  or  interested  her,  she  was  practically  inac- 
cessible to  him.  She  would  be  courtesy  itself,  yet  by  her 
strong  will  and  tact  would  speedily  make  a  gentleman  un- 
derstand, "You  have  no  claim  upon  me;  your  wishes  are 
nothing  tome."  If  he  interested  her,  however,  if  she  ad- 
mired him  even  slightly,  she  would  give  him  what  she 
might  term  a  chance.  Then  to  her  mind  their  relations 
became  much  like  a  duel;  she  at  least  would  conquer  him; 
he  might  subdue  her  if  he  could ;  she  would  give  him  the 
opportunity,  and  if  he  could  find  a  weak  place  in  her  pol- 
ished armor  and  pierce  her  heart  she  would  yield.  The 
question  was  whether  she  had  a  heart,  and  she  was  not  alto- 
gether sure  of  this  !:erself.  On  one  thing,  however,  she  was 
resolved — she  would  not  give  up  her  liberty,  ease  and  epi- 
curean life  for  the  duties,  obligations  and  probable  sorrows 
of  wifehood,  unless  she  met  a  man  who  had  the  power  to 
make  this  course  preferable. 

During  Clancy's  visit  to  New  York  in  the  winter,  Mr. 
Ainsley  had  spoken  of  him  to  his  daughter  in  terms  that 
interested  her  before  she  even  saw  the  young  man,  and  the 


A    FAIR    DUELLIST  157 

moment  the  experienced  woman  of  the  world  (for  she  was  a 
woman  of  the  world,  though   but  little  past  her  majority) 
looked  upon  him  she  was  still  more  interested,  recognizing 
at  a  glance  the  truth  that  whatever  Clancy  might  be,  he  was 
not  commonplace.     This  explains  why  he  was  perplexed  by 
the  mtentness  and  soft  fire  of  her  eyes.     If  the  way  opened, 
she  was  inclined  to  give  him  "a  chance."     It  might  cost 
him  dear,  as  it  had  others,  but  that  was  his  affair.     She 
felt  that  he  was  highly  honored  and  distinguished  in  being 
given  what  she  contemptuously  denied  to  the  great  major- 
ity.    The  way  had  opened.     She  was  in  Charleston,  and 
now,  this  particular  and  lovely  June  evening  found  her  on 
a  balcony  overlooking  the  shining  ripples  of  the  bay,  reclin- 
ing in  a  cane  chair  with  her  head  leaning  against  a  pillar 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  all  the  dangerous  fascination 
they  possessed.     Some  soft,  white  clinging  material  draped 
her  form  that  was  rendered  more  graceful  than  usual  by  her 
well- chosen  attitude.     A  spray  from  an  ivy  vine  hung  above 
her,  and  its  slightly  moving  shadow  flickered  on  her  throat 
and  bosom.     She  knew  she  was  entrancingly  beautiful;  so 
did  he.     He  felt  that  if  he  were  an  artist  nothing  was  left  to 
be  desired.     As  a  man  he  was  flattered  with  her  preference 
and  charmed  with  her  beauty.     He  did  not  and  could  not 
believe  that  he  had  more  than  a  passing  interest  in  her  mind 
as  yet,  and  he  felt  that  she  would  never  be  more  to  him  than 
a  gifted  lovely  friend,  who  could  at  one  and  the  same  time 
gratify  his  taste  and  bestow  fine  intellectual  companionship. 
They  talked  freely  with  lapses  of  silence  between  them. 
These  she  would  occasionally  break  with  little  snatches  of 
song  from  some  opera.     Her  familiarity  with  life  abroad 
enabled  her  to  say  much  which  supplemented  his  reading 
and  which  interested  him.     So  he  was  not  averse  to  these 
interviews  and  was  conscious  of  no  danger. 

To  her  they  had  an  increasing  pleasure.  She  was  de- 
lighted that  Clancy  thawed  so  deliberately,  that  instead  of 
speedily  verging  toward  sentiment  he  found  more  pleasure 
in  her  intellectuality  than  in  her  outward  beauty.    So  many 


258  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

others  to  whom  she  had  given  a  chance  had  quickly  lost 
both  their  heads  and  hearts,  and  she  was  beginning  to  re- 
joice in  the  belief  that  it  might  require  a  summer's  tactics 
to  beguile  him  of  either.  His  gray  eyes,  which  appeared 
dark  in  the  moonlight,  were  clearly  regarding  her  with 
quiet  admiration,  but  instead  of  paying  a  compliment  he 
would  broach  some  topic  so  interesting  in  itself  that  before 
she  knew  it  she  was  talking  well  and  even  brilliantly. 

This  present  evening  he  did  pay  her  a  compliment,  how- 
ever, which  delighted  her.  She  had  stated  her  view  of  a 
subject,  and  he  had  replied,  "I  must  differ  with  you  most 
decidedly.  Miss  Ainsley."  Then  he  added  with  a  little 
apologetic  laugh,  "I  could  have  made  such  a  remark  to 
very  few  ladies.  I  would  have  said,  'I  beg  your  pardon, 
do  not  think  I  am  contradicting  you,  but  possibly  on  further 
reflection — '  In  brief,  I  would  have  gone  through  the  whole 
conventional  circumlocution.  You  are  a  woman  of  mind, 
and  you  put  your  views  so  strongly  and  clearly  that  I 
forget  everything  except  your  thought.  Good  reason  why, 
your  thought  is  so  interesting,  all  the  more  so  because  it  is 
your  view,  not  mine,  and  because  I  do  not  agree  with  you. 
Have  I  made  sufficient  apology  ?" 

"You  have  done  much  more,  Mr.  Clancy,  you  have  paid 
me  the  only  kind  of  a  compliment  that  I  enjoy.  I  am  sick 
of  conventionalities,  and  as  for  ordinary  compliments,  I  am 
as  satiated  as  one  would  be  if  the  entire  contents  of  Huyler's 
candy-shop  had  been  sent  to  him. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  knew  that  much  before  I  had  seen  you  five  min- 
utes.    The  only  question  in  my  mind  was  whether  you  had 
not  been  made  ill  mentally  by  them  as  one  would  be  physi- 
cally by  the  candy. ' ' 
•  "In  other  words,  whether  I  was  a  fool  or  not." 

"Precisely." 

"Well?" 

"No  need  of  that  rising  inflection.     If  you  were  a  fool 
I  would  not  be  here. " 

"I  reckon  not,  as  you  say  in  the  South." 


A    FAIR    DUELLIST  159 

'•Yet  you  value  your  beauty,  Miss  Aiasley." 

"Indeed  I  do,  very  highly." 

"And  you  know  equally  well  that  I  admire  it  greatly, 
but  I  value  your  power  of  companionship  more.  Why 
should  not  a  man  and  woman  entertain  each  other  without 
compliments,  conventionalities  and  sentimentalities?" 

"No  reason  m  the  world  if  they  are  capable  of  such  com- 
panionship. The  trouble  with  so  many  is  that  they  tumble 
into  these  things,  especially  the  last,  as  if  they  were  blind 
ditches  m  their  path." 

"That  is  excellent.  Do  you  regard  love  as  a  blind 
ditch?" 

"The  deepest  and  worst  of  them  all,  judging  from  the 
experiences  of  very  many." 

"I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  you,"  he  answered  very 
quietly. 

A  few  moments  later  he  rose  to  take  his  leave.  She 
gave  him  her  hand  without  rising,  and  said,  "Good-night. 
I'm  not  going  to  leave  this  lovely  scene  till  I  am  sleepy. 
Come  again  when  you  want  companionship.  Drop  conven- 
tionality I  would  like  a  friend  who  would  talk  to  me  as 
men  of  brains  talk  to  men  of  brains,  without  circumlocu- 
tion." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  shall  begin  at  once.  You  have  a 
head  that  ought  to  inspire  an  artist,  but  I  like  its  furniture. 
I  am  going  to  read  up  on  our  point  of  disagreement.  If  I 
actually  prove  you  are  wrong  you  must  yield  like  a  man." 

"I  will." 

The  smile  on  her  lips  still  lingered  as  she  looked  out 
upon  the  moonlit  waters,  and  she  passed  into  a  delicious 
revery.  At  last  she  murmured,  "Yes,  he  has  a  chance.  I 
don't  know  how  it  will  end.  I  may  yield  to  his  argument, 
but  as  to  yielding  to  him,  that  is  another  affair.  The  best 
part  of  it  all  is  that  he  is  so  slow  in  yielding  to  me.  Here, 
in  this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  world,  is  a  cup  that 
I  can  at  least  drain  slowly." 

Clancy  sauntered  up  Meeting  Street,  his  thoughts  pre- 


160  THE   EARTB    TREMBLED 

occupied  with  the  interview.  Then  half  a  block  in  advance 
two  persons  entered  the  thoroughfare,  and  he  recognized 
Captain  Bodine  and  Mara.  He  crossed  the  street  so  as  not 
to  meet  them,  and  thej  passed  in  low,  earnest  conversation. 
If  Miss  Ainsley  had  been  in  the  furthest  star,  he  would  not 
have  cared.  Every  drop  of  his  Southern  blood  was  fired, 
and,  with  clinched  hands,  he  strode  homeward,  and  passed 
a  sleepless  night. 


<d    CHIVALROUS   IMPULSE  161 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A    CHIVALROUS    IMPULSE 

T  must  be  admitted  that  Clancy  had  some  cause  for  his 
perturbation.  Captain  Bodine  was  a  middle-aged  man, 
who  had  had  deep,  if  not  wide  experiences.  He  had 
come  to  regard  himself  as  saddened  and  way-worn,  halting 
slowly  down  the  westward  slope  of  life,  away  from  the  exal- 
tations of  vanished  joys,  and  the  almost  despairing  grief  of 
former  sorrows. 

Memory  kept  both  in  sharp  outline;  nevertheless  they 
were  receding,  as  do  hills  and  mountains  which  the  traveller 
leaves  behind  him.  The  veteran  had  believed  that  he  had 
no  future  besides  earning  an  honest  living,  and  providing 
for  his  beloved  child. 

The  traveller— to  employ  again  the  figure— often  Jour- 
neys forward  in  what  promises  to  be  a  monotonous  road. 
He  is  not  expecting  anything,  nor  is  he  looking  forward  to 
any  material  change.  Unawares  he  surmounts  a  little  emi- 
nence, and  there  opens  a  vista  which  kindles  his  dull  eyes 
with  its  beauty,  and  stirs  his  heavy  heart  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  he  has  not  passed  by  and  beyond  all  the  best 
things  of  life. 

Mara's  glance  of  profound  and  intelligent  sympathy  had 
opened  such  a  vista  to  Bodine 's  mental  vision.  It  had  been 
enough  then;  it  had  been  enough  since,  in  the  main,  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  his  old  and  dearest  friend,  and  that 
their  thoughts,  beliefs  and  sorrows  were  in  such  complete 
accord.  Mara  had  become  his  daughter's  closest  friend,  as 
well  as  CO- laborer,  and  so  he  heard  of  her  daily,  and  saw  her 


162  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

very  often.  All  that  he  saw  and  heard  confirmed  and  deep- 
ened his  first  impressions.  A  companionship,  wonderfully 
sweet  and  cheering,  was  growing  between  them.  He  had 
not  yet  begun  to  analyze  this,  or  to  recognize  whither  it  was 
tending,  while  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion  crossed  her  mind. 
She  only  felt  that  she  had  found  a  friend  who  diverted  her 
thoughts,  solaced  all  her  trouble,  and  made  the  past,  to  which 
she  believed  she  belonged,  more  real,  more  full  of  precious 
memories.  The  days  in  the  main  were  passing  quietly  and 
evenly  for  both,  full  of  work  and  deeply  interesting  thoughts, 
and  the  delightful  reunions  around  the  chair  of  the  genial 
invalid,  Mrs.  Bodine,  increased  in  number. 

The  old  lady  talked  and  acted  as  if  she  had  emerged  into 
the  warmest  sunshine  of  prosperity,  and  only  Ella  could  sur- 
pass her  in  blitheness  of  spirit  and  comical  speeches.  They 
caricatured  each  other,  every  one,  everything,  yet  without 
a  particle  of  malice.  Even  poor  old  Mrs.  Hunter  sometimes 
had  to  relax  her  grim  rigidity,  and  Bodine  often  laughed 
with  the  hearty  ring  of  his  old  campaigning  days.  At  times 
Mara  was  beguiled  into  the  belief  that  she  was  happy,  that 
her  deep  wound  was  healing.  The  illusion  would  last  for 
days  together;  then  something  unexpected  would  occur, 
and  the  love  of  her  heart  would  reveal  itself  in  bitter 
out-cry  against  its  wrong.  If  she  could  only  see  Clancy 
in  some  light  which  her  veritable  God-bestowed  conscience 
could  condemn,  she  believed  that  her  struggle  would  be 
much  easier;  but  he  always  confronted  her  with  his  ear- 
nest, steady  eyes,  which  said,  "I  have  as  true  a  right  to 
think  as  1  do,  as  you  have  to  think  differently.  Not  even 
for  your  sake  will  I  be  false."  Thus  after  days  of  compar- 
ative peace,  the  tempest  would  again  rage  in  her  soul. 

Buoyant,  happy  E'la  felt  now  as  if  she  could  trip  on 
through  life  indefinitely;  but  one  summer  morning  she 
tripped  into  a  little  adventure  which  brought  unwonted 
expressions  of  perplexity  into  her  fair  face.  She  was  re- 
turning along  the  shady  side  of  the  street  from  her  duties, 
her  face  like  a  blush- rose  from  the  heat,  when  she  observed 


A    CHIVALROUS    IMPULSE  163 

coming  toward  her  a  young  man  who,  from  his  garb  and 
bearing,  caught  her  eyes.  Pretty  Ella  knew  she  attracted 
a  great  deal  of  attention  from  the  opposite  sex  when  she 
appeared  in  the  street,  and  she  was  not  such  a  demure  little 
saint  as  to  let  a  fine,  manly  figure  pass  without  her  observa- 
tion, but  her  observance  was  quick,  furtive,  like  the  motion 
of  a  bird's  eye  that  looks  you  over  before  you  are  aware  of 
the  bird's  presence.  No  staring  fellow  ever  met  her  blue 
eyes  in  the  street.  On  the  present  occasion  the  little  maiden 
said  to  herself,  "There's  a  style  of  a  man  I  haven't  seen, 
and  he's  evidently  a  Northerner,  too.  Well,  he's  not  bad; 
indeed  he  is  the  best-looking  Vandal,  as  Mrs.  Hunter  would 
say —  Oh,  merciful  Heaven!  that  old  woman  will  be  run 
over." 

Her  commentary  had  been  interrupted  by  an  express 
wagon  driven  recklessly  around  the  corner.  Picking  her 
way  slowly  across  the  street  was  a  plain,  respectable  look- 
ing old  woman,  with  a  basket  of  parcels  on  her  arm,  and,  at 
the  moment  of  Ella's  cry,  she  was  almost  under  the  horse's 
feet,  paralyzed  with  terror.  Her  cry  caught  the  young 
man's  attention.  With  a  single  bound,  he  was  in  the 
street,  his  right  hand  and  arm  forcing  the  horse  back  on 
its  haunches,  while  with  his  left  he  gathered  up  the  old 
woman.  Then  by  a  powerful  effort  he  threw  the  horse's 
head  and  forequarters  away  from  him  with  such  force  that 
the  shafts  cracked.  Bearing  the  woman  to  the  sidewalk, 
he  placed  her  upon  her  feet,  then  went  back,  picked  up  her 
parcels  and  placed  them  in  her  basket.  Without  waiting  to 
hear  her  thanks,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  was  turning  away  as 
if  all  had  been  a  trifle,  when  he  was  confronted  by  the 
enraged  expressman  pouring  forth  volleys  of  vituperation. 
With  a  chivairic  impulse  the  girl  drew  nearer  the  stranger, 
who  looked  the  bully  steadily  in  the  eyes  while  he  kept  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  The  man  made  a  gesture  as  if  to 
strike.  Instantly  the  young  fellow's  left  arm  was  up  in 
the  most  scientific  attitude  of  self-defence.  "Don't  do  that, 
you  fool,"  he  said.     "Are  you  too  drunk  not  to  see  that 


Jg4  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

I'm  Strong  ?    Clear  out,  or  I'll  have  you  arrested.     If  you 
touch  me,  I'll  knock  you  under  the  feet  of  your  horse 

There  was  something  in  the  athlete's  bearing,  and  the 
way  he  put  up  his  left  arm,  which  brought  the  expye^^'f*;^ 
to  his  senses,  and  he  drew  ofi  swearing  about  the  blanked 
"Northerners,  who  acted  as  if  they  owned  the  city. 

George  Houghton-for  we  may  as  well  give  his  name  at 
once-regarded  the  fellow  contemptuously  an  instant,  and 
again  turned  to  pursue  his  way  regardless  of  the  gathermg 
crowd  But  his  attention  was  at  once  arrested  by  a  pair  of 
blue  eyes  which  were  so  eloquent  with  admiration  and 
approval,  that  he  smiled  and  again  lifted  his  hat. 

"You  are  a  gentleman,"  Ella  breathed  softly,  the  words 
coming  with  scarcely  any  volition  on  her  part. 

A  frown  instantly  darkened  Houghton  s  face,  and,  with 

a  slight,  stiff  acknowledgment,  he  strode  away.     ' '  W  hy  the 

deuce  shouldn't  I  be  a  gentleman!"  he  muttered.     "The 

very  young   girls  of   this   town  are  taught  to  look  upon 

Northerners  as  boors.     One  has  only  to  save  an  old  woman 

from  being  run  over,  face  a  blackguard  and  the  wondering 

■  expression  is  wrung  from  one  of  the  blue-blooded  scion  , 

•You're  a  gentleman!'     And  she  was  blue-blooded.     A  fe  ■ 

low  with  half  an  eye  and  in  half  a  minute  could  see  that. 

And  I  suppose  she  thought  that  one  of  my  Uk  was  no  more 

capable  of  such  a  deed  than  Toots  or  Uriah  Heep.     Bah! 

Having  thus  relieved  his  mind,  young  Houghton  s  step 
soon  grew  slower  and  slower.     It  was  evident  that  a  new 
and  different  train  of  thought  had  begun  «  bi«  °>>"d.     At 
last,  with  characteristic  force,  he  communed  with  himself: 
"Thin-skinned  fool!  why  didn't  I  look  at  the  girl  instead 
of  thinking  of  my  blasted  self  and  pride!    Why,  that  girl  s 
face  will  haunt  me  for  many  a  day,  whether  I  ever  see  her 
again  or  not.     I'm  as  bad  as  these  Bourbons  themselves  in 
my  prejudice.     Now  I  think  of  it  she  stood  almost  alone 
at  my  side  when  others  were  keeping  at  a  safer  distance, 
fearina  a  fight.     Her  look  was  one  of  simple,  ingenuous  ap- 
proval-almost  the  expression  of  a  child,  and  I  acted  like 


A    CHIVALROUS    IMPULSE  165 

a  brute.  That's  the  Old  Harry  with  me,  I  act  first  and 
think  afterward.  " 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  at  the  office,  and  writing 
rapidly  at  his  father's  dictation.  After  a  time  Mr.  Hough- 
ton said,  "Take  these  two  letters  to  Bodine's  desk,  and  tell 
him  to  make  copies.  Then  you  can  go,  George.  Your 
vacation  is  too  new  for  me  to  take  so  much  of  your  time. ' ' 

"See  here,  father,"  replied  the  young  man,  putting  his 
hand  on  the  old  gentleman's  shoulder.  "You've  been  here 
all  these  years  working  like  thunder  to  make  money,  and 
I've  been  spending  it  like  thunder.  If  you're  going  to  keep 
on  working,  I'm  going  to  work  with  you;  if  you'll  knock 
ofi  and  go  on  a  lark  with  me,  I'll  guarantee  that  you'll  be 
ten  years  younger  before  fall." 

The  old  man's  face  softened  wonderfully.  Indeed  one 
could  scarcely  imagine  it  was  capable  of  such  an  expression. 

"Ah,  George!  you  don't,  you  can't  know,"  he  said,  "yet 
my  heart  is  not  so  dead  but  that  I  feel  and  recognize  the 
spirit  in  which  you  speak.  My  place  is  here,  right  here, 
and  I  should  not  be  contented  anywhere  else.  But  you  are 
just  from  your  studies.  You  didn't  dazzle  the  facult}^  by 
your  performances.  Perhaps  they  would  say  you  were  a 
little  too  much  given  to  boating  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  I  am  satisfied  that  you  have  come  home  a  man,  and 
not  a  blue-spectacled  milk-sop.  Help  me  out  a  little,  and 
then  go  off  on  your  lark  yourself  and  recuperate." 

"Recuperate!"  and  the  young  fellow  made  the  office 
ring  with  his  laugh.  "Feel  of  that  muscle,  old  gentleman. 
All  the  recuperation  I  need  I  can  get  a  few  hours  before 
and  after  sundown.  I'll  go  now,  however,  for  there's  a 
spanking  breeze  on  the  bay,  and  I'd  like  to  make  a  run 
around  Fort  Sumter." 

"George,  George,  be  prudent.  You  know  that  your 
brother  lies  at  the  bottom  of  that  accursed  bay." 

"There,  father,  there,  he  died  doing  his  duty  like  a  man, 
and  you  mustn't  grieve  for  him  so.     Good-by."     , 

The  old  man  looked  wistfully  after  him  a  moment,  then 


166  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

turned  his  mind,  like  a  strong  motor  power,  to  the  compli- 
cated machinery  that  was  coining  wealth. 

George  went  to  Bodine,  whom  he  had  never  seen  before, 
and  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  and  began  in  his  half-boyish 
way:  "Here,  mine  ancient,  father  wants —  Beg  your  par- 
don.    Didn't  know  that  you  had  lost  a  leg." 

"What  is  it  that  Mr.  Houghton  wishes?"  said  the  cap- 
tain coldly,  and  turning  upon  the  young  man  a  visage  which 
impressed  him  instantly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  again,"  said  George.  "My  father 
would  like  copies  made  of  these  letters;"  and  he  touched 
his  hat  as  he  turned  away. 

"Thunder!"  he  muttered  as  he  left  the  counting-house. 
"I  was  told  that  I  was  a  gentleman  for  a  little  trumpery  act 
in  the  street.  That  man  tells  you  he  is  one  by  a  single 
glance  from  his  sad,  stern  eyes.  He  is  another  of  the  blue- 
bloods,  Southerner  to  the  backbone.  How  is  it  that  he  is 
in  the  old  gentleman's  employ,  I  wonder?  I  supposed 
father  hated  ex-Confederates  as  the  Devil  does  holy  water. 
Bodine,  Bodine.  I  must  find  out  who  he  is,  for  he  evi- 
dently has  a  history." 

He  soon  forgot  all  about  Bodine  in  the  pleasure  of  skil- 
fully sailing  his  boat  close  to  the  wind. 

Ella  had  pursued  her  way  homeward  with  bowed  head 
and  a  confused  sense  of  shame  and  resentment.  "Suppose 
I  did  speak  to  him,  a  stranger,"  she  murmured,  "was  he  so 
dull,  or  so  cold  and  utterly  conventional  as  to  make  no 
allowance  for  the  circumstances?  No  matter,  I've  had 
a  lesson  that  I  shall  never  forget.  Hereafter  he  and  his 
kind  may  save  all  the  old  women  in  Charleston,  and  fight 
all  the  bullies,  and  I  won't  even  look  at  them.  If  he  had 
had  the  brains  and  blood  of  a  frog  even,  he  would  have 
understood  me.  And  he  did  seem  to  understand  at  first,  for 
he  smiled  pleasantly  and  lifted  his  hat.  Does  he  consider 
it  an  insult  to  be  told  he  is  a  gentleman?  Perhaps  he 
thought  this  fact  should  be  too  apparent  to  be  mentioned, 
or  else  he  thought  it  bold  and  unmaidenly  to  open  my  lips 


A    CHIVALROUS    IMPULSE  167 

at  all.  A  plague  on  him  for  not  being  able  to  see  the  sim- 
ple truth.  No  Southerner  would  have  been  so  stupid,  or 
ready  to  think  evil. ' ' 

Thus  she  communed  with  herself  till  she  reached  her 
own  room.  After  a  little  thought,  she  decided  not  to  speak 
of  the  adventure.  She  had  an  unusual  share  of  common- 
sense,  and  knew  that  the  affair  would  only  give  pain  to 
her  father  and  cousin,  and  that  its  relation  would  serve  no 
earthly  good  to  any  one. 


168  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   STRANGER   EXPLAINS 

THERE  are  those  who  touch  our  life  closely,  and  be- 
come essentially  a  part  of  it;  there  are  many  more 
who  are  but  casual  and  passing  acquaintances,  and 
yet  these  very  people  often  unconsciously  become  the  most 
important  factors  in  our  destiny.  Ella  Bodine  was  soon  to 
prove  this  truth.  It  will  of  course  be  understood  that  her 
life  was  not  so  secluded  and  restricted  that  she  practically 
had  no  acquaintances  beyond  the  characters  of  our  story. 
Sensible  Mrs.  Bodine  had  no  intention  that  her  pretty  cou- 
sin should  be  hidden  behind  the  prejudices  so  powerful,  in 
those  with  whom  she  was  immediately  associated. 

"Cousin  Hugh,"  she  said,  one  day  soon  after  Ella's  en- 
counter with  Houghton,  "how  was  it  with  you  when  you 
were  a  young  fellow  ?  how  was  it  with  me  when  I  was  a 
girl  ?  Do  you  suppose  your  daughter  is  made  of  different 
flesh  and  blood  ?  She  is  so  unselfish  in  nature  and  sunny 
in  temperament  that  you  will  never  learn  from  her  that  she 
has  longings  for  society  of  her  own  age.  We  have  no  right 
to  keep  her  among  our  shadows.  We  belong  to  the  past; 
she  has  a  future,  and  should  have  the  chance  which  is  the 
right  of  every  young  girl.  You  must  not  judge  her  by  Mara, 
who  stands  by  herself,  and  is  not  a  representative  of  any 
ordinary  type.  She  is  as  old  as  you  are,  and  a  great  deal 
older  than  I  am.  She  has  grown  up  among  shadows  and 
loves  them.  Ella  loves  the  sunshine,  and  should  have  all 
of  it  that  we  can  give  her.  Now,  you  must  let  her  go  out 
more.     I  will  choose  her  chaperons,  and  I  reckon  I  know 


THE    STRANGER    EXPLAINS  169 

whom  to  choose.  If  I  do  say  it,  I  would  like  you  to  men- 
tion any  one  in  Charleston  more  competent.  I  know  about 
the  fathers  and  mothers,  the  grandfathers  and  grandmothers, 
and  the  remote  ancestors  of  every  one  in  Charleston  who  is 
any  one." 

"Cousin  Sophy,  I  believe  you  are  right.  I  have  per- 
mitted Ella  to  be  too  devoted  to  me,  but  we  have  lived  such 
a  precarious  life  of  late— indeed  it  has  been  the  vital  ques- 
tion how  we  were  to  live  at  all.  We  are  now  very  diSer- 
ently  situated.  Yes,  you  are  right.  Ella  should  see  some- 
thing of  society,  and  enjoy  some  of  its  pleasures,  and,  as 
you  say,  should  have  her  chance."  At  these  final  words 
he  sighed  deeply. 

"I  know  what  that  sigh  means,"  resumed  the  old  lady. 
"You  would  wish  to  keep  Ella  to  yourself  always — the 
natural  impulse  of  a  father's  heart.  Yet  if  you  allow  this 
impulse  to  control  you,  it  will  become  selfishness  of  the 
worst  kind.  I  say  again  that  every  girl  should  have  her 
chance  to  see  and  be  seen,  and  to  make  the  most  and  best 
of  her  life  according  to  woman's  natural  destiny.  You  may 
trust  me,  as  I  have  said,  to  choose  those  who  shall  have 
the  care  of  Ella  when  she  goes  out.  She  has  an  invitation 
to  a  little  company  at  Mrs.  Willoughby's,  and  a  most  dis- 
creet friend  has  ofiered  to  chaperon  her.  We'll  fix  her  out 
so  that  she  will  appear  as  well  as  any  one,  and  you  know 
our  claims  don't  rest  on  expensiveness  of  dress.  Mrs. 
Willoughby  comes  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  best  families 
in  the  State.  I  know  she  is  liberal,  and  affiliates  with 
Northern  people  more  than  I  could  wish,  but  they  are  all 
said  to  be  of  the  best  class — and  I  suppose  there  is  a  best 
class  among  'em.  Good  Lor',  Hugh!  we  may  feel  and  think 
as  we  please,  and  can  never  change,  but  we  can't  keep  back 
the  rising  tide.  If  there  are  a  few  Northern  people  present 
Ella  won't  be  contaminated  any  more  than  you  are  by 
working  among  Northern  people.  We  have  our  strong 
prejudices — that's  what  they  are  called — but  we -must  not 
let  them  make  us  ridiculous.     Mrs.  Willoughby  says  she's 

H— Roe— XV 


170  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

emancipated,  and  that  she'd  have  whom  she  pleased  in 
her  parlors.  She  has  been  abroad  so  much,  you  know. 
Well,  well,  we'll  consider  it  settled."     And  so  it  was. 

When  Ella  was  informed  of  her  cousin's  plan  in  her 
behalf  she  was  half  wild  with  delight.  "I  may  consider 
myself  a  debutante,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Cousin  Sophy!  how 
shall  I  behave  ?" 

"Behave  just  as  a  bird  flies,"  said  the  wise  old  lady. 
"If  you  put  on  any  airs,  if  you  are  not  your  own  natural 
self^  I'll  shake  you  when  you  come  home." 

The  captain  saw  his  child's  pleasure,  and  felt  anew  the 
truth  of  his  cousin's  words.  Ella  should  be  immured  no 
longer.  Mara  had  been  invited  also,  but  declined,  prefer- 
ring to  spend  the  evening  with  Mrs.  Bodine. 

Mrs.Willoughby's  company  was  not  large,  and  had  been 
selected  from  various  motives.  We  need  mention  but  one 
that  had  influenced  her.  Miss  Ainsley  had  requested  that 
George  Houghton  should  be  invited.  Her  father  and  Mr. 
Houghton  had  large  business  interests  in  common,  and  at 
Mr.  Ainsley's  request  the  young  man  had  called  upon  his 
daughter.  She  was  pleased  with  him,  although  she  felt  her- 
self to  be  immeasurably  older  than  he.  Mrs.  Willoughby 
had  also  been  favorably  impressed  by  his  fine  appearance 
and  slightly  brusque  manner. 

"Yes,"  said  the  astute  Miss  Ainsley,  as  they  were  talk- 
ing him  over  after  his  departure,  "he's  a  big,  handsome, 
finely  educated  boy,  who  would  walk  through  your  South- 
ern conventionalities  as  if  they  were  cobwebs,  had  he  a 
chance. ' ' 

"Delightful!"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby.  "If  I  can  keep 
my  drawing-room  free  from  insipidity,  I  am  content.  As 
to  his  walking  through  our  conventionalities,  as  you  term 
them,  let  him  try  it.  If  he  doesn't  butt  his  head  against 
some  rather  solid  walls,  I'm  mistaken.  You  don't  half 
know  what  a  bold  thing  I  am  doing  when  I  invite  old 
Houghton's  son;  but  then  it  is  just  this  kind  of  social 
temerity  that  enchants  me,  and  he  shall  come.     I  only  hope 


TEE   STRANGER    EXPLAINS  171 

that  some  good  people  won't  rise  up  and  shake  off  the  dust 

of  their  feet." 

"Don't  worry ;  you're  a  privileged  character.  Mr.  Clancy 
has  told  me  all  about  it.  He  admires  you  immensely  because 
you  are  so  untrammelled." 

"He  admires  you  a  hundred-fold  more.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  him  ?'' 

"1  don't  know.  I  couldn't  do  anything  with  him  yet. 
That's  his  charm.  If  I  didn't  know  better,  I  should  say  he 
was  the  coldest— he  is  not  cold  at  all.  The  woman  who 
reaches  his  heart  will  find  a  lot  of  molten  lava.  I'm  often 
inclined  to  think  it  has  been  reached  by  some  one  else,  and 
that  his  remarkable  poise  results  from  a  nature  fore-armed, 
or  else  chilled  by  a  former  experience.  At  any  rate,  there 
is  a  fire  smouldering  in  his  nature,  and  when  it  breaks  out 
it  won't  be  of  the  smoky,  lurid  sort  that  has  so  often  made 
me  ill-     There  will  be  light  and  heat  in  plenty." 

"Well,  you're  an  odd  girl,  Caroline.  You  experiment 
with  men's  hearts  like  an  old  alchemist,  who  puts  all  sorts 
of  substances  into  his  crucible  in  the  hope  of  finding  some- 
thing that  will  enrich  him." 

"And  probably,  like  the  old  alchemist,  I  shall  never  find 
anything  except  what,  to  me,  is  dross." 

Under  Mrs.  Robertson's  wing  Ella  appeared,  and  met 
with  a  very  kindly  reception.  She  had  not  Miss  Ainsley's 
admirable  ease,  but  she  possessed  something  far  better. 
There  was  a  sweet  girlish  bloom  in  addition  to  her  innately 
refined  manner  and  ingenuous  loveliness  of  face,  which 
made  even  the  experienced  belle  sigh  that  she  had  passed 
by  that  phase  forever.  Yet  shrewd  Ella's  eyes  were  as  busy 
as  they  were  intelligent.  She  wondered  at  Miss  Ainsley 
with  mingled  admiration  and  distrust,  but  she  had  received 
a  sufficient  number  of  hints  from  Mrs.  Bodine  to  under- 
stand her  hostess  quite  well.  She  saw  Clancy  enter,  and 
Miss  Ainsley's  welcome,  and  quickly  observed  that  there 
was  a  sort  of  free-masonry  between  them.  Then  some  one 
appeared  who  almost  took  away  her  breath.     It  was  the 


172  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Stranger  to  whom  she  had  spoken  so  unexpectedly,  even 
to  herself.  She  saw  that  Mr.  Clancy,  Miss  Ainsley,  and 
Mrs.  Willoughby  greeted  him  cordially,  but  that  many 
others  appeared  surprised  and  displeased.  Little  time  was 
given  to  note  more,  for  the  stranger's  eyes  fell  upon  her. 
He  instantly  turned  to  his  hostess,  and  evidently  asked  for 
an  introduction.  With  a  slight  sparkle  of  mischief  in  her 
eyes,  Mrs.  Willoughby  complied,  and  Ella  saw  the  stranger 
coming  toward  her  as  straight  and  prompt  as  if  he  meant 
to  carry  her  off  bodily.  He  seemed  to  ignore  every  one  and 
everything  else  in  the  room,  but  she  was  too  high-spirited 
to  fall  into  a  panic,  or  even  to  be  confused.  Indeed  she 
found  herself  growing  angry,  and  was  resolving  to  give  him 
a  lesson,  when  his  name  was  mentioned.  Then  she  was 
startled,  and  for  an  instant  confused.  This  was  no  other 
than  the  son  of  "that  old— Mr.  Houghton,"  as  Mrs.  Bodine 
always  mentioned  him,  with  a  little  cough  of  self-recovery 
as  if  she  had  been  on  the  perilous  edge  of  saying  something 
very  unconventional.  His  father  was  her  father's  employer, 
and  the  instinctive  desire  to  save  her  father  from  trouble 
led  to  hesitation  in  her  plan  of  rebuke  and  retaliation.  Her 
petty  resentment  should  not  lead  to  any  unpleasant  compli- 
cations, and  she  therefore  merely  bowed  civilly. 

Houghton  repeated  her  name  as  if  a  victim  of  momentary 
surprise  himself,  and  then  said  with  his  direct  gaze,  "I  wish 
to  ask  ten  thousand  pardons." 

"That  is  a  great  many.  I  shall  have  to  think  about 
granting  one." 

"If  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  do  it,"  was  his  next  rather 
brusque  remark. 

"That  is  your  advice,  then?" 

"No,  indeed.  I'm  not  my  own  worst  enemy.  Miss  Bo- 
dine, circumlocution  is  not  my  forte.  I  had  not  walked  a 
block  away  from  you  the  other  day  before  I  charged  myself 
with  being  a  fool  and  a  brute.  It  took  just  that  long  for 
me  to  get  it  into  my  thick  head  what  your  manner  and 


THE   STRANGER    EXPLAINS  173 

words  meant,  and  I've  been  in  a  rage  with  myself  ever 
since. " 

"Well,"  she  asked,  looking  down  demurely,  "what  did 
they  mean  ?' ' 

"They  meant  you  were  a  brave  girl — that  from  a  chiv- 
alric  impulse  you  had  drawn  near  when  even  men  stood  a 
little  aloof,  as  if  fearing  that  if  the  affair  came  to  blows, 
they  might  get  a  chance  one  themselves.  Your  face  had 
the  frank  expression  of  a  child — how  often  in  fancy  I've 
seen  it  since ! — the  words  came  from  your  lips  almost  as  a 
child  would  speak  them.  Now  that  I  see  you  again  I  know 
how  true  my  second  thoughts  were  of  you  and  of  myself.  I 
deserve  a  whipping  instead  of  your  pardon." 

There  was  a  point  yet  to  be  cleared  up  in  Ella's  mind, 
and  she  remarked  coldly,  "I  do  not  see  how  you  could  have 
had  any  other  thoughts  than  what  you  term  your  second 
thoughts." 

"JSIor  do  I,  now;  and  I  suppose  you  can  have  no  mercy 
on  a  poor  fellow  who  is  often  hasty  and  wrong-headed.  I 
will  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  I  was  charmed  with  your 
expression  when  first  aware  of  your  presence,  but  when  j^ou 
spoke  you  touched  a  sore  spot.  Miss  Bodine,  you  would 
not  be  ostracized  at  the  North.  You  would  be  treated  with 
the  courtesy  and  cordiality  to  which  every  one  would  see 
you  to  be  entitled.  Practically  I  am  ostracized  here  by 
the  class  to  which  you  belong.  When  you  spoke  I  stalked 
away  like  a  sulky  boy,  muttering,  'Why  shouldn't  I  be  a 
gentleman  ?'  Even  the  girls  in  this  town  are  taught  to  look 
upon  Northerners  as  boors.  I  had  only  to  pick  up  an  old 
woman,  and  face  a  bully,  when,  as  if  in  utter  surprise  that 
one  of  my  ilk  should  be  so  grandly  heroic,  I  heard  the 
words,  'You  are  a  gentleman.'  You  see  it  was  my  wretched 
egotism  that  got  me  into  the  scrape.  When  I  thought  of 
you,  not  myself,  I  saw  the  truth  at  once,  and  felt  like  going 
back  to  the  expressman  and  meekly  asking  him  to  give  me 
a  drubbing." 

All  was  clear  to  Ella  now.     Indeed  there  was  a  frank- 


174  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

ness  and  sincerity  about  Houghton  which  left  no  suspicion 
of  dark  corners  and  mental  reservations.  As  his  explana- 
tion proceeded  she  began  to  laugh.  "Well,"  she  remarked, 
*'I  had  my  first  thoughts  too.  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  pur- 
sued my  way  homeward,  with  burning  cheeks,  that  you  or 
any  one  else  might  save  all  the  old  women  in  town,  and 
fight  all  the  bullies,  and  that  I  would  pass  on  my  way  with- 
out looking  to  the  right  or  left." 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Bodine,  you  are  mistaken.  Your 
generous  spirit  would  get  the  better  of  you  again  in  two 
seconds.  Heaven  grant,  however,  that  next  time  you  may 
have  a  gentleman  as  your  ally.  For  a  few  moments  I  ceased 
to  be  one,  and  became  an  egotistical  fool." 

"You  are  too  hard  upon  yourself.  Since  you  interpret 
me  so  kindly  it  would  ill  become  me  to — " 

"Ella,  my  dear,"  said  her  chaperon,  "let  me  present  to 
you  Mr.  Vandeveer. " 

Houghton  gave  her  a  bright,  grateful  glance,  rose  in- 
stantly, and  bowed  himself  away. 

Mrs.  Kobertson  had  been  on  pins  and  needles  over  this 
prolonged  conference.  There  was  something  so  resolute 
about  Houghton's  manner,  and  he  had  placed  his  chair  so 
adroitly  to  bar  approach  to  Ella,  that  the  good  lady  was  in 
sore  straits.  Mrs.  Willoughby  saw  her  perplexity,  and  felt 
not  a  little  mischievous  pleasure  over  it.  She  disappeared 
that  she  might  not  be  called  upon  to  interfere.  At  last  in 
desperation  Mrs.  Eobertson  laid  hold  on  Mr.  Vandeveer, 
and  ended  the  ominous  interview. 

Ella  gave  rather  lame  attention  to  her  new  companion's 
commonplaces;  then  others  were  introduced,  and  the  even- 
ing was  drifting  away  in  the  ordinary  fashion.  She  soon 
began  to  talk  well  in  her  own  bright  way,  and  had  all  the 
attention  a  young  debutante  could  desire,  but  she  was  al- 
ways conscious  of  Houghton's  presence,  and  also  aware  that 
he  was  quietly  observant  of  her.  She  saw  that  he  met  with 
very  little  cordiality,  and  that  from  but  a  few.  Woman- 
like, she  began  to  take  his  part  in  her  thoughts,  and  to  feel 


T.HE   STRANGER    EXPLAINS  175 

the  injustice  shown  him.  She  had  an  innate  sense  of  fair 
play,  and  she  resented  the  manoeuvring  of  her  chaperon  to 
keep  him  away  from  her.  Yet  she  soon  found  herself  en- 
joying abundantly  the  conversation  of  such  young  men  as 
met  with  Mrs.  Robertson's  approval.  This  truth  was  ap- 
parent to  that  lady's  satisfaction,  but  the  independent 
young  woman  was  not  long  in  resolving  that  if  she  went 
into  society  she  would  not  go  as  a  child  in  leading-strings, 
and  she  determined  that  she  would  speak  to  Houghton 
again  before  the  evening  was  over,  if  the  opportunity  of- 
fered. He  had  at  last  disappeared,  but  she  soon  discovered 
that  he  was  on  the  balcony  with  Clancy  and  Miss  Ainsley. 
Strolling  past  them  with  her  escort,  she  heard  enough  of 
their  bright,  merry  talk  to  wish  that  she  had  a  part  in  it. 
It  was  her  nature,  however,  to  avoid  him  until  she  could 
speak  under  the  eye  of  her  chaperon,  and  she  again  entered 
the  lighted  drawing-room. 

Houghton,  meanwhile,  had  been  doing  some  thinking 
himself.  The  girl,  whose  blue  eyes  had  looked  at  him  so 
approvingly  in  the  street,  was  taking  a  stronger  hold  on 
his  fancy  every  moment.  The  relaxation  of  her  cold  as- 
pect into  mirthfulness,  and  an  approach  to  kindness  had 
enchanted  him;  while  her  ardent,  honest,  fearless  nature 
appealed  to  him  powerfully.  "She  strikes  me  as  a  woman 
who  would  stand  by  a  fellow  through  thick  and  thin  as  long 
as  he  was  right,"  he  thought,  "and  if  my  judgment  is  cor- 
rect the  whole  ex- Confederate  army  shan't  keep  me  from 
getting  acquainted  with  her.  Ah!  how  1  liked  that  severe 
look  in  her  eyes  till  she  knew  what  my  first  thoughts  were! 
She  has  blue  blood  of  the  right  sort,  and  I'm  sorely  mis- 
taken if  it  doesn't  feed  a  brain  that  can  think  for  itself." 

He  also  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  was  vigilant 
for  an  opportunity.  It  soon  occurred.  Ella  and  her  at- 
tendant were  chatting  with  Mrs.  Willoughby  a  little  apart 
trom  the  others.  Houghton  joined  them  instantly,  and  was 
encouraged  when  both  the  ladies  greeted  him  with  a  smile. 
The  attendant  gentleman    soon  withdrew,   the  hostess  re- 


176  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

mained  a  few  moments  longer,  and  then  Houghton  and  Ella 
were  alone. 

"You  may  have  observed,"  he  said,  "the  penalty  I  pay 
for  being  a  Northerner." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "and  1  don't  think  it's  fair." 

"Miss  Bodine,  do  you  dare  think  for  yourself?" 

"I  scarcely  know  how  I  can  help  doing  so." 

"That  is  just  what  I  was  thinking  out  on  the  balcony." 

"I  thought  you  were  charmed  by  that  beautiful  Miss 
Ainsley. " 

"She  has  no  eyes  except  for  Clancy,  and  a  fine  fellow  he 
is  too — too  good  for  her,  I  imagine.     1  can't  make  her  out." 

"Neither  can  1." 

"Oh,  bother  her!  I  don't  like  feminine  riddles.  Miss 
Bodine,  there's  a  gentleman  in  my  father's  employ  bearing 
your  name.     Is  he  a  relative?" 

"He  is  my  father,"  she  replied  proudly. 

"I  should  guess  as  much  if  your  eyes  were  not  so  blue." 

"1  have  my  mother's  eyes,  I  am  told." 

"Well,  on  that  same  day — you  know — he  told  me  that 
he  was  a  gentleman:  can  you  guess  how  ?" 

"I  would  rather  you  should  tell  me." 

"I  was  sent  to  him  by  my  father  with  a  message,  and  I 
spoke  rudely  to  him  at  first;  not  intentionally,  but  as  a 
harum-scarum  young  fellow  might  speak  to  an  elderly  man 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  1  meaning  nothing  more  than 
friendly  familiarity.  I  fear  you  won't  understand,  but  with 
you  I  can't  help  downright  honesty." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  He  was  one  of  your  father's  clerks, 
and  you  cared  little  what  you  said  to  him." 

"Scarcely  right.  Miss  Bodine.  With  all  my  faults— and 
they  are  legion — I'm  good-natured,  and  do  not  intentionally 
hurt  people's  feelings.  What  a  fine  proof  of  that  I  gave  you 
in  my  insufferable  stupidity!" 

"That's  been  explained  and  is  past.  Please  don't  refer 
to  it  any  more. ' ' 

"Heaven  knows  I  wish  to  forget  it.     Well,  your  father 


THE   STRANGER    EXPLAINS  177 

turned  to  me  from  his  writing.  One  look  was  enough.  I 
begged  his  pardon  twice  on  the  spot.  That  is  the  way  he 
told  me  he  was  a  geDtleman.  It  had  been  so  born  and  bred 
into  him  that,  unless  a  fellow  was  an  idiot,  one  glance  told 
the  story." 

Her  face  softened  wonderfully  as  he  spoke,  and  her  eyes 
grew  lustrous  with  feeling,  as  she  said: 

"You  are  not  an  idiot,  Mr.  Houghton.  I  am  glad  you 
so  quickly  appreciated  my  father.  He  is  more  than  a  gen- 
tleman, he  is  a  hero,  and  I  idolize  him." 

"I  should  fancy  it  was  a  mutual  idolatry,"  and  his  eyes 
expressed  an  admiration  of  which  the  dullest  girl  would 
have  been  conscious,  and  Ella  was  not  dull  at  all.  "I  wish 
we  could  become  acquainted,"  he  added  abruptly,  and  with 
such  hearty  emphasis  that  her  color  deepened. 

Before  she  could  reply,  her  chaperon  managed  to  sep- 
arate them  again,  and  she  saw  him  no  more  until,  rather 
early  in  the  evening,  she  was  bidding  her  hostess  good- 
night. Then  she  encountered  such  an  eager,  questioning, 
friendly  look,  that  she  smiled  involuntarily,  and  slightly 
bowed  as  she  turned  away.  Mrs.  Robertson  was  so  preoc- 
cupied at  the  moment  that  she  did  not  witness  this  brief, 
subtile  exchange  of — what?  Ella  did  not  know,  herself, 
but  her  heart  was  wonderfully  light,  and  there  was  a  deli- 
cious sense  of  exhilaration  in  all  her  veins. 

As  they  were  driving  home,  Mrs.  Robertson  began  sen- 
tentiously,  "Ella,  in  the  main  you  behaved  admirably.  I 
don't  suppose  anything  better  could  be  expected  of  one  so 
unversed  in  society,  especially  Charleston  society.  You  were 
natural  and  refined  in  your  deportment,  and  bore  yourself  as 
became  your  ancestry.  You  will  soon  learn  to  make  dis- 
criminations. I  had  no  idea  that  young  Houghton  would  be 
present,  or  I  would  have  told  you  about  him  and  his  father. 
Mrs.  Willoughby  is  carrying  things  too  far,  even  if  many 
of  our  people  have  consented  to  wink  at  much  that  we  dis- 
approve of.  Houghton  represents  the  most  detested  North- 
ern element  among  us.     Of  course  you,   in  your  inexperi- 


178  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

ence,  felt  that  you  must  be  polite  to  every  man  introduced 
to  you,  and  he  talked  with  the  volubility  of  which  only  a 
Yankee  is  capable.  It  is  scarcely  possible  that  you  will 
meet  him  anywhere  except  at  Mrs.  Willoughby's,  and  if 
you  go  there  any  more  you  must  learn  the  art  of  shaking 
off  an  objectionable  person  speedily.  Your  meeting  Hough- 
ton to-night  was  purely  accidental,  and  I  reckon  that  after 
you  have  been  out  a  few  times  you  will  learn  to  choose  your 
associates  from  those  only  of  whom  your  father  and  cousin 
would  approve.  Perhaps  therefore  you  had  better  not  say 
anything  about  your  meeting  Houghton,  unless  you  feel 
that  you  ought.  No  harm  has  been  done,  and  it  would 
only  displease  your  father,  and  render  him  adverse  to  your 
going  out  hereafter. " 

The  good  lady  was  a  little  worried  by  the  fear  that  her 
reputation  as  a  chaperon  would  be  damaged,  and,  sincerely 
believing  that  "no  harm  had  been  done,"  and  that  her 
homily  would  remove  all  danger  from  the  future,  she  coun- 
selled as  she  thought  wisely.  Her  heart  was  full  of  good- 
will toward  the  girl,  and  she  was  desirous  that  nothing 
should  prevent  her  from  enjoying  society  in  her  interpreta- 
tion of  the  word. 

Ella  thanked  her  warmly  for  her  kindness  and  advice, 
but  she  was  in  deep  perplexity,  for  she  had  never  concealed 
anything  from  her  father  before.  Her  lightness  of  heart 
was  already  gone,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  before 
she  slept. 


UNCLE    SHEBA    SAT    UPON  179 


CHAPTER   XXI 

UNCLE   SHEBA   SAT   UPON 

OLD  TOBE,  keeper  of  the  "rasteran,"  may  have  been 
right  in  saying  that  Uncle  Sheba  had  backslidden 
as  far  as  he  could  slide,  remembering  the  limita- 
tions of  a  life  like  his,  but  circumstances  had  recently  oc- 
curred which  brought  his  church  relations  to  a  crisis.     Tobe 
was  the  opposite  pole  in  character  to  Uncle  Sheba.     There 
was  an  energy  about  the  old  caterer  which  defied  age  and 
summer  heat.     Even  his  white  wool  always  seemed  bris- 
tling aggressively  and  controversially.     His  fiery  spirit  in- 
fluenced his  commonest  acts.     When  he  boiled  potatoes  his 
customers  were  wont  to  say  "he  made  'em  bile  like  de  debil." 
He  carried  his  energy  into  his  religion,  one  of  his  favor- 
ite exhortations  in  the  prayer-meeting  being,  "Ef  you  sin- 
ners wants  to  'scape  you'se  got  to  git  up  an'  git."     During 
the  preaching  service  he  took  a  high  seat  in  the  synagogue, 
and  if  any  one  in  the  range  of  his  vision  appeared  drowsy 
he  would  turn  round  and  glare  till  the  offender  roused  into 
consciousness.     The  children  and  young  people  stood  in  awe 
of  him,  and  there  was  a  perfect  oasis  of  good  behavior  sur- 
rounding his  pew.    Once  some  irreverent  young  men  thought 
it  would  be  a  joke  to  pretend  to  "conviction  ob  sin,"  and  to 
seek  religious  counsel  of  old  Tobe,  but  they  came  away 
scared  half  out  of  their  wits,  one  of  them  declaring  that  he 
smelt  brimstone  a  week  afterward.     The  Rev.  Mr.  Birdsall 
felt  that  he  had  a  strong  ally  in  Tobe,  but  he  often  sighed 
over  the  old  man's  want  of  discretion. 

Uncle  Sheba  was  Tobe's  bete  noir,  and  he  often  inwardly 
raged  over  "dat  lazy  niggah."     "De  time  am  comin'  w'en 


180  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

dat  backslider  got  to  be  sot  on,"  he  would  mutter,  and  this 
seemed  his  one  consolation.  He  could  scarcely  possess  his 
soul  in  patience  in  the  hope  of  this  day  of  retribution;  "but 
I  kin  hole  in  till  it  come,  fer  it's  gwine  to  come  shuah,"  he 
occasionally  said  to  some  congenial  spirits. 

Tobe  had  a  very  respectable  following  in  the  church 
both  as  to  numbers  and  character,  for  many  looked  upon 
his  zeal  as  heaven-inspired.  At  last  there  came  a  hot  Sun- 
day afternoon  which  brought  his  hour  and  opportunity. 
Mr.  Birdsall  was  not  only  expounding,  but  also  pounding 
the  pulpit  cushion  in  order  to  waken  some  attention  in  his 
audience.  Old  Tobe  had  been  whirling  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  and  glaring  hither  and  thither,  till  in  desperation 
he  got  up  and  began  to  nudge  and  pinch  the  delinquents. 
From  one  of  the  back  pews,  however,  there  soon  arose  a 
sound  which  so  increased  as  to  drown  even  Mr.  Birdsall's 
stentorian  voice.  Tobe  tiptoed  to  the  spot,  and,  in  wrath 
that  he  deemed  righteous,  blended  with  not  a  little  exulta- 
tion, looked  upon  Uncle  Sheba.  His  head  had  fallen  on 
his  bosom,  and  from  his  nose  were  proceeding  sounds  which 
would  put  to  shame  a  high-pressure  engine.  Aun'  Sheba 
was  shaking  him  on  one  side  and  Kern  Watson  on  the 
other.  Audible  snickering  was  general,  but  this  soon  gave 
way  to  alarm  as  Aun'  Sheba  exclaimed  aloud,  ''He's  dun 
gwine  an'  got  de  popoplexy  shuah." 

"Carry  him  out,"  said  old  Tobe,  in  a  whisper  which 
might  have  been  heard  in  the  street. 

Two  or  three  men  sprang  forward  to  aid,  but  Kern  sternly 
motioned  them  back,  and,  lifting  Uncle  Sheba's  portly  form 
as  if  it  were  a  child,  carried  the  unconscious  man  to  the  ves- 
tibule. Scores  were  about  to  follow,  but  Tobe,  with  his 
wool  bristling  as  never  seen  before,  held  up  his  hand  im- 
pressively, and  in  the  same  loud  whisper  heard  by  all,  re- 
marked, "It  doan  took  de  hull  cong'ration  to  wait  on  one 
po'  sinner.  Sabe  yo'selves,  brud'ren  an'  sisters.  Sabe 
yo'selves,  fer  de  time  am  a  comin'  w'en  you'se  all  will 
be  toted  out  dis  yere  temple  ob  de  Lawd  foot  fo'most." 


UNCLE   SHEBA    SAT    UPON  181 

With  this  grewsome  recollection  forced  upon  their  atten- 
tion the  people  sat  down  again,  wide  awake  at  last.  Tobe 
beckoned  to  three  or  four  elderly  men  whom  he  knew  he 
could  rely  upon,  and  they  gathered  around  Uncle  Sheba. 
His  wife  was  slapping  him  on  the  back  and  chafing  his 
hands,  while  Kern  was  splashing  water  in  his  face.  The 
unfortunate  man  began  to  sneeze,  and  manifest  rather  con- 
vulsive signs  of  recovery.  At  last  he  blurted  out,  "Dar 
now,  dar  now,  Aun'  Sheba,  doan  go  on  so.  I'se  gwine 
to  bring  in  de  kinlins  right  smart." 

''Bress  de  Lawd!"  exclaimed  Aun'  Sheba,  "dat  soun' 
nat'rel.     No  popoplexy  in  dat  ar  kin'  ob  talk." 

Tobe  and  his  allies  exchanged  significant  glances.  Uncle 
Sheba  was  brought  to  his  senses  sufficiently  to  be  supported 
home  by  his  wife  and  son-in-law.  He  soon  became  aware 
that  he  had  committed  an  awful  indiscretion,  for  Watson 
looked  stern,  and  there  was  a  portentous  solemnity  in  Aun' 
Sheba' s  expression.  He  began  to  enter  on  excuses.  "I  was 
jis'  come  ober  by  de  heat,"  he  said.  **  'Tween  de  heat  an' 
de  po'ful  sarmon,  I  was  jis'  dat  'pressed  dat  de  sperit  went 
out  ob  me. ' ' 

"Mr.  Buggone, "  replied  his  wife,  severely,  "it  was  wat 
went  inter  you,  an'  not  wat  wen'  out  ob  you,  dat  made  de 
trouble.  You  jes'  gormidized  at  dinnah.  I'se  gwine  to  cut 
ofi  you'se  'lowance  one-half." 

At  this  dire  threat  Uncle  Sheba  groaned  aloud,  feeling 
that  his  sin  had  overtaken  him  swiftly  indeed.  His  supper 
was  meagre,  and  to  his  plaintive  remarks  Aun'  Sheba  made 
no  reply,  but  maintained  an  ominous  silence  until  sleep  again 
brought  the  relief  of  oblivion. 

After  Uncle  Sheba's  departure,  Tobe  and  the  other  pil- 
lars of  the  church  held  a  whispered  conference  in  the  vesti- 
bule, and  soon  agreed  up  their  course.  When  the  services 
were  over,  they,  with  other  sympathizers,  waited  upon  the 
minister.  Mr.  Birdsall  was  hot,  tired,  and  incensed  him- 
self, and  so  was  in  a  mood  to  listen  to  their  representations. 

"Hit's  time  dis  yere  scan' el  was  r' moved, "  said  Tobe, 


182  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

solemnly.  "We  mus' purge  ourselves.  Mr.  Buggone  should 
be  sot  on,  an'  'spended  at  de  berry  leas';  an'  ter  make  de 
right  'pression  on  oders  dat's  gettin'  weak  in  dere  speritool 
jints,  1  move  we  sot  on  Mr.  Buggone' s  case  to-morrer 
ebenin'." 

Mr.  Birdsall  was  made  to  feel  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
accede,  but  he  already  felt  sorry  for  Aun'  Sheba  and  the 
Watsons,  and  had  misgivings  as  to  the  result. 

"Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "I'll  agree  to  a  prelim' nary  con- 
frence  to-morrow  evenin'  at  Mr.  Buggone' s  house.  Brud- 
'ren,  we  must  proceed  in  de  spirit  ob  lub  an'  charity,  an' 
do  our  best  to  pluck  a  bran'  from  de  burnin'." 

In  the  morning  he  went  around  to  prepare  Aun'  Sheba 
for  the  ordeal,  but  she  and  Vilet  had  gone  out  upon  their 
mercantile  pursuits,  and  Uncle  Sheba  also  had  disappeared. 
To  Sissy  the  direful  intelligence  was  communicated.  In 
spite  of  all  Mr.  Birdsall's  efforts  to  console,  she  was  left 
sobbing  and  rocking  back  and  forth  in  her  chair.  When 
Kern  came  home,  he  heard  the  news  with  a  rigid  face. 

''Well,"  he  said,  "ef  it's  right,  it's  right.  Ef  I'd  done 
wrong  I'd  stan'  up  an'  face  wot  come  ob  it." 

Uncle  Sheba  knew  when  his  wife  would  return,  and  was 
ready  to  receive  her  in  the  meekest  of  moods.  He  had  cut 
an  unusual  quantity  of  wood  and  kindlings,  but  they  failed 
to  propitiate.  Sissy  soon  called  her  mother  to  come  over 
to  her  cabin  to  hear  of  Mr.  Birdsall's  visit,  and  all  that  it 
portended.  Aun'  Sheba  listened  in  silence,  and  sat  for  a 
long  time  in  deep  thought,  while  Sissy  and  Vilet  sobbed 
quietly.  At  last  the  old  woman  said  firmly,  "Sissy,  I  wants 
you  and  Kern  ter  be  on  han'.  Vilet  kin  take  keer  ob  de 
chillun.  Dis  am  gwine  ter  be  a  solemn  'casion,  an'  de  Lawd 
on'y  knows  wot's  gwine  ter  come  out  ob  it.  Anyhow  dis 
fam'ly  mus'  stan'  by  one  noder.  My  mind  ain't  clar  jes  yit, 
but' 11  git  clar  wen  de  'mergency  comes;  I  jes'  feel  it  in  my 
bones  it'll  git  clar  den." 

There  was  such  an  awful  solemnity  in  her  aspect  when 
she  returned,   that  Uncle  Sheba  was  actually   scared.     It 


UNCLE   SHEBA   SAT    UPON  183 

seemed  to  him  that  her  manner  could  not  be  more  depress- 
ing if  she  were  making  preparations  for  his  funeral.  His 
trepidation  was  increased  when  he  was  told  briefly  and 
sternly  to  put  on  his  " Sunday-go- to-meetin's." 

"Wot  fer,  Aun'  Sheba?" 

"You'se  know  soon  'nuff.  De  Elder's  gwine  to  call  on 
you  dis  ebenin'.  Ei  you'd  had  de  popoplexy  in  arnest, 
we'd  make  great  'lowance  fer  you,  but  wen  you  eat  an' 
drink  till  you  mos'  ready  to  bust,  and  den  'sturb  de  hull 
meetin'  by  snortin'  like  a  'potamus,  dar's  got  to  be  trouble, 
an'  I'se  got  to  meet  it." 

Uncle  Sheba  did  as  he  was  directed,  with  the  feeling  that 
the  judgment  day  had  come. 

Meanwhile  old  Tobe  had  prepared  his  indictment,  and 
marshalled  his  forces  for  the  occasion.  At  seven  in  the 
evening  he  led  them  to  the  nearest  corner,  and  waited  for 
Mr.  Birdsall,  who  soon  appeared.  Led  by  him,  they  entered 
Aun'  Sheba' s  living-room  in  solemn  procession.  Although 
the  evening  was  warm,  there  was  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  for 
she  had  said,  ''Dere's  gwine  ter  be  notin'  wantm'  to  de 
'casion."  All  the  chairs  had  been  brought  in  from  Wat- 
son's cabin,  and  he  and  Sissy  sat  in  the  background.  Uncle 
Sheba  had  been  placed  on  the  further  side  of  the  hearth, 
and  was  fairly  trembling  with  apprehension.  He  tried  to 
assume  a  pious,  penitent  air,  but  failed  miserably.  Aun' 
Sheba  made  an  imposing  spectacle. 

She  had  arrayed  herself  in  her  Sunday  gown  and  had 
wound  a  flaming  turban  about  her  head.  Apparently  she 
was  the  most  collected  person  present,  except  Kern  Watson 
who  sat  back  in  shadow,  his  face  quiet  and  stern.  As  the 
minister  and  committee  entered  she  rose  with  dignity  and 
said,  ''Elder  an'  brad'ren,  take  cheers." 

Then  she  sat  down  again,  folded  her  hands  and  gazed 
intently  at  the  ceiling. 

If  old  Tobe  was  not  cool,  as  indeed  he  never  was,  he  was 
undaunted,  and  only  waited  for  the  minister  to  prepare  the 
way  before  he  opened  on  Uncle  Sheba.     A  few  moments  of 


184  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

oppressive  silence  occurred,  during  which  the  culprit  shook 
as  if  he  had  an  ague,  but  Aun'  Sheba  did  not  even  wink. 
Mr.  Birdsall,  regarding  her  portentous  aspect  with  increased 
misgiving,  began  at  last  in  a  mournful  voice,  "Mis  Bug- 
gone,  dis  is  a  very  sorrowful  'casion.  We  are  here  not  as 
you'se  enemies  but  as  you'se  fren's.  Our  duty  is  painful, 
'stremely  so,  but  de  brud'ren  feel  dat  de  time  is  come  wen 
Mr.  Buggone  mus'  be  made  to  see  de  error  ob  his  ways,  dat 
dere  mus'  be  no  mo'  precrastination.  De  honah  ob  de  church 
is  japerdized.  Neber-de-less  he  is  a  free-agent.  De  lamp 
still  holes  out  to  burn — " 

"An'  de  wilest  sinner  can  return,"  interrupted  Aun' 
Sheba,  nodding  her  head  repeatedly.  "I  unerstan'.  You 
means  well.  Elder." 

Old  Tobe  could  hold  in  no  longer,  and  began  excitedly, 
"De  question  am  weder  de  wile  sinner's  gwine  ter  return,  or 
wants  ter  return,  or's  got  any  return  in  'im.  Elder,  I  feels 
fer  Mis  Buggone  an'  her  family,  but  dis  yere  ting's  gwine  on 
long  anufi.  We'se  been  forbearin'  an'  long-sufferin'  till 
dere's  a  scan'el  in  de  church.  I'se  tried  wid  all  my  might 
er  keep  de  people  awake  an'  listenin',  and  I'se  gettin'  dun 
beat  out.  Ef  we  wink  at  dis  awful  'zample  you  mought  as 
well  go  to  de  grabeyard  an'  preach.  It  ud  be  mo'  comfable 
fer  you,  kase  dey'd  hear  jus'  as  well,  an'  dey  wouldn't 
'sturbe  de  'scorse  by  snorin'  de  roof  off.  Now  I  ask  de 
sense  ob  dis  meetin'.  Wen  a  member  backslide  so  he  do 
notin'  but  eat  an'  sleep,  oughtener  he  be  sot  on?" 

There  was  audible  approval  from  all  of  Tobe's  followers, 
and  he  was  encouraged  to  go  on. 

"Ef  Mr.  Buggone  mus'  sleep  mos'  ob  de  time  let  him 
sleep  peac'ble  in  his  own  house,  but  de  Scripter  say,  '  Wake 
dem  dat  sleepest, '  an'  we  say  it's  time  Mr.  Buggone  woke 
up.  Any  cullud  pusson  dat  kin  sn'^re  so  po'ful  as  Mr. 
Buggone  needn't  say  he  weakly  an'  po'ly.  Hafe  de  poah 
he  put  in  his  snore  ud  lif '  'im  right  along  in  all  good  works, 
week  days  an'  Sundays.  But  I'se  los'  faith  in  'im.  He's 
been  'spostulated  an'  'monstrated  with,  an'  'zprt^d  so  often 


UNCLE   SHEBA    SAT    UPON  185 

dat  he's  hardened  an'  his  conscience  zeered  wid  a  hot  iron. 
We'se  jes'  got  to  take  sich  sinners  in  han',  or  de  paster- lot 
won't  hole  de  flock  no  mo'.  I  move  we  take  steps  to  s'pend 
Mr.  Buggone." 

"Secon'  dat  motion,"  said  one  of  his  followers  promptly. 

*'Mr.  an'  Mis  Buggone,  have  you  nothin'  to  say?"  asked 
Mr.  Birdsall  sadly. 

"Elder,"  began  Uncle  Sheba  in  his  most  plaintive  tone, 
"you  know  de  heat  yistidy  was  po'ful — " 

"Mr.  Buggone,"  interrupted  his  wife  severely,  "dis  ain't 
no  'casion  fer  beatin'  round  de  bush  an'  creepin  troo  knot- 
holes. You  knows  de  truf  an'  I  knows  de  truf.  No,  Elder, 
we'se  got  not' in  ter  say  at  jes'  dis  time." 

"Den,  Elder,  you  put  de  motion  dat  we  take  steps,"  said 
Tobe,  promptly. 

With  evident  reluctance  Mr.  Birdsall  did  so,  and  the 
affirmative  was  unanimously  voted  by  the  committee. 

"I  wants  ter  be  s'pended  too,"  said  Aun'  Sheba,  still 
gazing  at  the  ceiling. 

"Now,  Mis  Buggone,  dere  would  be  no  right  nor  reason 
in  dat,"  the  minister  protested. 

"Elder,  I  doesn't  say  you-uns  ain't  all  right,  an'  I  does 
say  you  means  well,  but  I'se  de  bes'  jedge  of  my  inard 
speritool  frame.  Hit  was  neber  jes'  clar  in  my  mind  dat 
I  was  'ligious,  an'  now  I  know  I  ain't  'ligious,  an'  I  wants 
ter  be  s'pended." 

"But  it  is  clar  in  my  mind  dat  you  are  religious,  dat  you'se 
a  good  woman.  Would  to  de  good  Lawd  dat  de  church  was 
full  ob  Christians  like  you!" 

"I'se  spoke  my  min',"  persisted  Aun'  Sheba,  dog- 
gedly. "Ole  Tobe  shall  hab  his  way  an'  de  church  be 
purged." 

"Elder,"  said  Tobe,  now  quite  carried  away  by  zeal  and 
exultation,  "p'raps  Mis  Buggone  am  de  bes'  jedge.  Ef  she 
feel  she  ain't  one  ob  de  aninted  ones — " 

"Peace!"  commanded  Mr.  Birdsall,  "never  with  my  con- 
sent shall  any  steps  be  taken  to  suspend  Mis  Buggone.     You 


186  THE    EARTH   TREMBLED 

forgits,  Tobe,  how  easy  it  is  to  pull  up  de  wheat  wid  de 


tares. ' ' 


"Den  I  s'pend  myself,"  said  Aun'  Sheba,  "an'  I  is 
s'pended.  Now  I  gwine  ter  'fess  de  truf.  1  gave  Mr.  Bug- 
gone  an  extra  Sunday  dinner  yistidy.  I  was  puff  up  wid 
pride  kase  business  was  good,  an'  I  bress  de  Lawd  fer  pros- 
perin'  me.  Den  like  a  fool  I  'dulge  myself  and  I  'dulge 
Mr.  Buggone.  Ef  he's  ter  be  s'pended  fer  a  snorin'  sleep, 
I  ougliter  be  s'pended  fer  a  dozin'  sleep,  fer  I  was  a-dozin'; 
an'  I  feels  it  in  my  bones  dat  we  bofe  oughter  be  s'pended, 
an'  I  IS,  no  matter  wot  you  does  wid  Mr.  Buggone.  Now, 
Tobe,  you  hab  had  you'se  say,  an'  I'se  a-gwine  to  hab 
mine.  You'se  got  a  heap  ob  zeal.  You  wouldn't  lead  de 
flock;  you'd  dribe  'em,  you'd  chase  'em,  you'd  worry  de 
bery  wool  off  ob  dem.  Whar  you  git  yon  sperit  f um  ? 
You  ain't  willin'  ter  wait  till  de  jedgment  day;  you'd  hab 
a  jedgment  ebery  day  in  de  week.  You'se  like  dem  'siples 
dat  was  allers  wantin'  ter  call  down  fiah  from  Heben.  Look 
out  you  don't  get  scorched  yo'self.  I  can't  be  'ligious  long 
o'  you,  an'  if  you  got  'ligion  I  habn't.  Elder,  you  says 
de  Lawd  libed  yere  on  dis  yarth.  I  ony  wish  I'd  libed  in 
dem  days.  I'd  a  cooked,  an'  washed,  an'  ironed,  an'  baked 
fer  Him  an'  all  de  'siples.  Den  like  anuff  He'd  say:  'Ole 
Aun'  Sheba,  you  means  well.  I  won't  be  hard  on  you  nor 
none  of  you'se  folks  when  de  jedgment  day  comes.'  But 
so  much  happen  since  dat  ar  time  wen  He  was  yere  dat  I 
kinder  got  mixed  up.  I  reckon  1  jes'  be  s'pended,  an'  let 
Him  put  de  ole  woman  whar  she  belong  wen  de  time  comes." 

There  was  pathos  in  her  tones;  her  stoicism  had  passed 
away,  and  tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes,  while  Sissy 
was  sobbing  audibly.  The  committee  at  first  had  been 
aghast  at  the  result  of  the  meeting,  and  now  their  emo- 
tional natures  were  being  excited  also.  Old  Tobe  was  dis- 
concerted, and  still  more  so  when  Aun'  Sheba  suddenly 
rallied,  and,  turning  upon  him,  said  with  ominous  nods, 
"Wen  dat  day  come,  Old  Tobe,  you  won't  be  de  jedge." 

Thus  far  Kern  Watson  had  sat  silent  as  a  statue,  bat 


UNCLE   SHEBA    SAT    UPON  187 

DOW  his  strong  feelings  and  religious  instincts  gained  the 
mastery.     Lifting  ap  his  powerful  mellow  voice  he  sang: 

"The  people  was  a-gatherin'  from  far  and  neah; 
Some  come  ler  fishes  an'  some  ter  heah ; 
But  He  fed  dem  all,  an'  He  look  so  kin' 
Dat  dey  followed,  dey  followed,  an'  none  stay  behin'. 

*'But  one  got  loss,  an'  he  wandered  far, 
De  night  come  dark,  no  moon,  no  star; 
De  lions  roared  an'  de  storm  rose  high. 
An'  de  po'  loss  one  he  down  ter  die. 

*'Den  come  a  voice,  an'  de  win's  went  down, 
An'  de  lions  grovel  on  de  groun', 
An'  de  po'  loss  one  am  foun'  an'  sabed, 
For  de  Shepherd  ebery  danger  brabed, " 

These  words,  as  sung  by  Kern,  routed  old  Tobe  com- 
pletely; he  hung  his  head  and  had  not  a  word  to  say.  The 
committee  had  beaten  time  with  their  feet,  and  began  to 
clap  their  hands  softly.  Then  Mr.  Birdsall,  with  kindly 
energy,  exhorted  Uncle  Sheba,  who  groaned  aloud  and  said 
"Amen"  as  if  in  the  depths  of  penitence.  A  long  prayer 
followed  which  even  moved  old  Tobe,  for  Aun'  Sheba  had 
shaken  his  self-confidence  terribly.  The  little  company 
broke  up  with  hand-shaking  all  around,  Tobe  saying: 
"Sister  Buggone,  I  bears  no  ill-will.  I'se  gwine  ter  look 
inter  my  speritool  frame,  an'  ef  I  cotch  de  debil  playin'  hob 
wid  me  he's  gwine  to  be  put  out,  hoof  an'  horns." 

Aun'  Sheba  wrung  her  son-in-law's  hand,  as  she  said: 
"You'se  singin',  Kern,  kinder  went  to  de  right  spot. 
Neber-de-less  I'se  s'pended  till  I  feels  mo'  shuah. " 

Sissy  kissed  her  mother  and  father  affectionately,  and 
then  the  old  couple  were  left  alone.  Aun'  Sheba  gazed 
thoughtfully  into  the  dying  fire,  but  before  long  Uncle 
Sheba  began  to  hitch  uneasily  in  his  chair.  Finally  he 
mustered  up  courage  to  say:  "Aun'  Sheba,  dis  am  been 
bery  po'ful  'casion,  bery  tryin'  to  my  narbes  an'  feelin's. 
Yet  I  feels  kinder  good  an'  hopeful  in  my  inards.  Ef  I 
wasn't  jes'  so  dun  beat  out  I'd  feel  mo'  good.     P'raps  now, 


188  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

'siderin'  all  I'se  pass  troo,  you  wouldn't  min'  gibin'  me 
a  bit  ob  dat  cole  ham  an'  hoe-cake — " 

"Mr.  Buggone, "  began  Aun'  Sheba  sternly,  then  she 
suddenly  paused,  threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and  rocked 
back  and  forth. 

*'Dar  now,  Aun'  Sheba,  dar  now,  doan  go  on  so.  1  was 
ony  a  sigestin'  kase  I  feels  po'ly,  but  I  kin  stan'  it." 

''I'se  no  better  dan  old  Tobe  hisself,"  groaned  Aun' 
Sheba.  "All  on  us  is  hard  on  some  one,  while  a  hopin'  fer 
marcy  ourselves.  Ef  you'se  hebin  is  in  de  cubud,  go  in  dar 
an'  hep  a  sef."  And  she  rose  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
treasure-house. 

"I'se  jes'  take  a  leetle  bite,  Aun'  Sheba,  jes  a  leetle 
comf'tin  bite,  kase  I'se  been  so  sot  on  dat  I  feels  bery 
weakly  an'  gone-like." 

Uncle  Sheba  was  soon  comforted  and  sleeping,  but  Aun' 
Sheba  still  sat  by  the  hearth  until  the  last  glowing  embers 
turned  to  ashes.  "  Yes, "  she  muttered  at  last,  "I'se  s'pended 
till  I  feels  mo'  shuah. " 


YOUISG    HOUGHTON   IS    DISCUSSED  189 


CHAPTER    XXII 

YOUNG   HOUGHTON    IS   DISCUSSED 

SLEEP  and  buoyancy  of  temperament  enabled  Ella  to 
see  everything  in  a  very  different  light  the  following 
morning.  ''The  idea  of  my  taking  what  happened 
last  night  so  seriously!"  she  said  aloud  while  making  her 
toilet.  "As  Mrs.  Robertson  said,  'no  harm  has  been  done. ' 
Of  course  I  shall  tell  papa  and  Cousin  Sophy  that  I  met  and 
talked  to  Mr.  Houghton.  What  if  I  did  ?  He  was  intro- 
duced to  me  just  as  the  others  were,  and  what  do  I  care 
for  him?  He  was  a  very  agreeable  Vandal,  and  I'm  glad 
to  have  had  a  chance  to  see  what  Vandals  are  like.  As 
with  other  bugaboos  they  lose  their  terrors  under  close 
inspection." 

At  breakfast,  therefore,  she  was  merrier  than  usual,  and 
gave  a  graphic  and  humorous  account  of  the  company, 
expatiating  on  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  Miss  Ainsley,  her 
preference  for  Clancy,  and  his  apparent  devotion  to  her. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said  at  last,  "who  do  you  think  was 
there?  You  can't  guess,  so  I  will  tell  you — young  Mr. 
Houghton." 

' '  What  1  the  son  of  that  old — beg  pardon.  Cousin  Hugh, ' ' 
and  Mrs.  Bodine  laughingly  added,  "It  nearly  slipped  out 
that  time." 

"I  hope  he  was  not  presented  to  you,  Ella,"  said  her 
father  gravely. 

"Well,  he  was,  and  by  Mrs.  Willoughby.  I  didn't  talk 
with  him  very  much,  but  of  course  I  had  to  be  polite. 
When  I  first  heard  his  name  I  felt  that  I  should  be  polite 


190  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

for  your  sake;  and  I  was  rather  sorry  for  him,  too,  because 
so  many  evidently  frowned  on  his  presence." 

"You  need  not  be  polite  to  him  again  for  my  sake,"  said 
her  father  decidedly.  ''1  am  under  no  obligations  to  him 
or  his  father,  and  this  is  a  case  into  which  policy  cannot 
enter.  I  do  not  blame  you,  however,"  he  added,  more 
kindly,  ''for  you  acted  from  good  impulses.  Of  course,  as 
you  say,  you  must  be  polite  to  every  one,  but  you  have 
a  perfect  right  to  be  cold  toward  those  who  are  unfriendly 
to  us,  and  with  whom  we  can  never  have  any  part  or  lot. 
I  have  been  in  ^Ir.  Houghton's  employ  long  enough  to  be 
convinced  more  fully,  if  possible,  that,  while  he  is  an  honest 
man,  he  has  not  a  particle  of  sympathy  with  or  for  our  peo- 
ple. I  told  him  from  the  start  that  there  could  be  no  social 
relations  between  us.  You  must  learn  to  avoid  and  shake 
oS  people  who  are  objectionable." 

''Well,"  said  Ella,  laughing,  "1  won't  have  to  shake  oS 
people  while  under  Mrs.  Eobertson's  wmg.  She  bore  down 
upon  us,  as  Cousin  Sophy  would  say,  like  a  seventy- four  of 
the  line.  Dear  papa,  you  know  that  Mr.  Houghton  is  noth- 
ing to  me,  but  it  scarcely  seems  fair  that  he  should  be  pun- 
ished for  the  sins  of  his  father. " 

"You  need  not  punish  him,  my  dear.  Simply  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him.  He  is  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
be  regarded  as  an  object  of  sympathy,"  and  her  father  spoke 
a  little  irritably. 

Ella  thought  it  wise  to  make  no  further  reference  to  him. 
''After  all,"  she  thought,  ''what  does  it  matter?  I'm  glad 
be  had  a  chance  to  explain  that  disagreeable  episode  in  the 
street,  and  now  I  am  practically  done  with  him.  I  can  at 
least  be  civil,  should  we  ever  meet  again,  and  there  it  will 

end." 

"Mrs.  Willoughby  is  going  too  far,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine, 
musingly.  "If  she  continues  to  invite  such  people  she  may 
find  that  other  invitations  will  be  declined  without  regrets. 
We  haven't  much  left  to  us,  but  we  can  at  least  choose  our 
associates. ' ' 


YOUNG    HOUGHTON   IS    DISCUSSED  191 

''Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Ella  lightly.  "I  did  not  invite 
him  to  spend  this  evening  with  us,"  and  kissing  her  father 
and  cousin  good- by,  she  started  for  Mara's  home. 

Her  thoughts  were  busy  on  the  way,  and  they  were  chiefly 
of  a  self-gratulatory  character.  The  whole  episode  now 
amused  her  greatly,  for  she  could  not  help  agreeing  with 
her  father  that  the  great,  strapping  fellow  was  not  an  object 
of  sympathy.  "He  probably  has  a  score  of  flames  at  the 
North,"  she  thought,  "and  wouldn't  mind  adding  a  little 
Southern  girl  to  the  number,  especially  as  she  is  a  sort  of 
forbidden  fruit  to  him.  Well,  he's  not  a  bad  fellow,  if  he 
IS  that  old  blank's  son,  as  Cousin  Sophy  always  suggests. 
Nevertheless,  I  don't  think  he's  treated  fairly,  and  I  can't 
keep  up  these  old  bitter  feelings.  What  had  he  or  I  to  do 
with  the  war,  I'd  like  to  know?  Well,  well,  I  suppose  it's 
natural  for  those  who  went  through  it  to  feel  as  they  do, 
but  1  wish  Mara  wasn't  so  bound  up  in  the  past.  It  isn't 
fair  to  him,"  she  broke  out  again.  "He  said  I  wouldn't  be 
ostracized  at  the  North.  Bother!  it  don't  matter  what  he 
said.  As  to  our  getting  acquainted — "  And  she  almost 
laughed  outright  at  the  preposterous  idea. 

She  and  Mara  were  soon  busy  as  usual,  and  as  oppor- 
tunity offered,  she  told  her  fellow-worker  of  the  events  of 
the  evening.  Mara,  with  a  languid  interest,  inquired  about 
those  whom  she  knew,  and  how  they  appeared,  and  she 
sometimes  laughed  aloud  at  Ella's  droll  descriptions.  She 
was  even  more  emphatic  in  her  disapproval  of  young 
Houghton's  presence  than  the  captain  or  Mrs.  Bodine  had 
been.  "I  shall  never  accept  any  invitation  from  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby  after  this,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Well  now,  Mara,"  replied  Ella,  with  a  little  toss  of  her 
head,  "I  can't  share  in  that  spirit.  Mr.  Houghton  is  a  gen- 
tleman, and  I  could  meet  him  in  society,  chat  with  him,  and 
let  It  end  there.  We  can't  keep  this  thing  up  forever,  that 
is,  we  of  the  younger  generations.  Why  should  I  hate 
that  big,  good-natured  fellow  ?  The  very  idea  seems  ridic- 
ulous.    I  could  laugh  at  him,  and  tease  and  satirize  him 


192  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

B.  little,  but  I  could  no  more  feel  as  you  do  toward  him, 
than  I  could  cherish  an  enmity  toward  a  sunflower.  Still, 
since  father  feels  as  he  does,  I  shall  have  to  cut  him  as  far 
as  possible,  should  I  ever  meet  him  again,  which  is  not 
probable.  I  reckon  that  Mrs.  Willoughby  will  be  so  crushed 
that  even  she  won't  invite  him  any  more." 

*'I  should  hope  not,  truly." 

"Well,  she  has  a  Northern  girl  visiting  her,  and  a  very 
remarkable  looking  girl  she  is." 

"That  is  a  different  affair,  although  I  do  not  approve  of 
it.  Miss  Ainsley  is  the  daughter  of  a  rich  man  who  is  doing 
much  for  the  South,  and  who  feels  kindly  toward  us,  while 
old  Mr.  Houghton  detests  us  as  heartily  as  we  do  him.  He 
is  absorbing  our  business  and  taking  it  away  from  Southern 
men,  and  he  exults  over  the  fact.  Miss  Ainsley  is  certainly 
a  very  beautiful  girl,  for  I've  seen  her.  I  suppose  she  re- 
ceived much  attention."  Mara  purposely  turned  her  back 
on  Ella,  and  busied  herself  in  the  further  part  of  the 
kitchen.  She  had  heard  rumors  of  Clancy's  attention  to 
the  fair  Northerner,  and  she  both  dreaded  and  hoped 
to  have  them  verified.  "Anything,"  she  sighed,  "oh, 
anything  which  will  break  his  hold  upon  my  heart!" 

Unconsciously,  Ella  gave  her  more  information  than  she 
could  well  endure.  "I  reckon  she  did  receive  attention, 
very  concentrated  attention,  and  that  was  all  she  cared  for 
evidently.  She  was  rather  languid  until  Mr.  Clancy  ap- 
peared, and  then  she  welcomed  him  with  all  her  brilliant 
eyes.  He  looked  as  if  he  understood  her  perfectly,  and 
they  spent  most  of  the  evening  on  the  shadowy  balcony 
together.  It  is  another  case  of  the  North  conquering  the 
South;  but  if  I  were  a  man,  I'd  think  twice  before  surren- 
dering to  that  girl.     I  had  an  instinctive  distrust  of  her." 

Mara  felt  that  she  was  growing  pale,  and  she  immediately 
busied  herself  about  the  stove  until  her  face  flamed  with 
the  heat. 

"You  don't  seem  to  take  much  interest  in  the  affair," 
Ella  remarked,  as  Mara  continued  silent. 


YOUNO    HOUGBTON   IS   DISCUSSED  193 

"I  never  expect  to  make  Miss  Ainsley's  acquaintance," 
was  the  quiet  reply,  "and  Mr.  Clancy  in  my  view  has  almost 
ceased  to  be  a  Southerner." 

"Well,  I  never  met  him  before,  and  have  only  heard  a 
little  about  him  from  cousin  Sophy,  and  that  not  in  his 
favor.  He  has  a  strong,  intelligent  face  though,  and  a 
very  resolute  look  in  his  eyes." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Mara  coldly,  "I  reckon  he's  one 
who  would  have  his  own  way  without  much  regard  for 
others. ' ' 

''Re  may  slip  up  for  once.  Miss  Ainsley  struck  me  as  a 
girl  who  would  have  her  way,  no  matter  how  many  hearts 
she  fractured." 

Aun'  Sheba  and  V"ilet  now  entered,  diverting  Ella's 
thoughts.  The  old  woman  sat  down  rather  wearily,  a  look 
of  deep  dejection  on  her  face. 

"Look  here,  Aun'  Sheba,"  said  the  lively  girl,  "you're 
not  well,  or  else  something  is  troubling  you.  You  looked 
down-hearted  yesterday,  and  you  look  funereal  now." 

"We'se  been  sot  on,"  said  Aun'  Sheba  solemnly. 

"  'Sot  on!'  good  gracious!  Aun'  Sheba,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"Well,  dey  sot  on  my  ole  man,  an'  husband  an'  wife  am 
one.  Hit  didn't  turn  out  bad  as  I  s'posed  it  would,  bress 
dat  ar  son-in-law  ob  mine,  but  I  keeps  a  tinkin'  it  all  ober, 
an'  I'se  'jected,  I  is;  an'  dar's  no  use  ob  shoatin'  glory 
wen  you  doan  feel  glory."  Then  she  told  the  whole  story, 
which  kept  Ella  on  pins  and  needles,  for,  while  she  felt  an 
honest  sympathy  for  the  poor  soul,  she  had  an  almost  un- 
controllable desire  to  laugh. 

"Yes,  Missy  Mara,"  concluded  Aun'  Sheba  pathetically, 
"I'se  s'pended,  I  s'pended  myself,  an'  I'se  gwine  to  stay 
s'pended  till  I  feels  mo'  shuah. " 

"Suspended,  Aun'  Sheba!"  said  Mara,  starting,  sud- 
denly becoming  conscious  of  present  surroundings. 

Aun'  Sheba  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  but  voluble 
Ella  made  it  all  right  by  saying,  "No  wonder  Mara  ex- 

I —Roe— XV 


194  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

claimed.      The  idea!     I  wish  1  was  half  as  good  as  you 


are." 


"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Mara,  striving  to  conceal  her  deep  pre- 
occupation, "that's  the  way  with  Ann'  Sheba;  the  better  she 
is,  the  worse  she  thinks  she  is.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
your  church  people  have  suspended  you?" 

"No.     I' se  s'pended  myself.     Didn't  I  tole  you?" 

"There,  there,  Aunty,  I  didn't  understand.  I  believe  in 
you  and  always  will." 

"Well,  honey,  I  reckon  you'se  ole  nuss'll  alers  be  de 
same  ter  you  wheder  she'se  'ligious  or  no." 

Both  the  girls  now  stood  beside  her,  with  a  hand  on  either 
shoulder,  and  Ella  said  heartily,  "Now,  Aun'  Sheba,  it  is 
just  as  you  said,  you're  'jected;  you've  got  the  blues,  and 
everything  looks  blue  and  out  of  shape  to  you.  You  can't 
see  the  truth  any  more  than  if  you  were  cross-eyed.  I  can 
prove  to  you  whether  you're  'ligious  or  not.  Vilet,  ain't 
your  grandma  a  good  Christian  woman?" 

"  'Deed  an'  she  is  troo  an'  troo,"  said  the  child,  who 
had  been  a  silent,  yet  deeply  sympathetic  listener. 
"Many's  de  time  she's  sent  me  wid  good  tings  to  po' 
sick  folks." 

"There  now,"  cried  Ella.  "Aun'  Sheba,  you've  got  to 
believe  the  Bible.  'Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings,' it  says.  You  can't  deceive  a  child.  Vilet  knows 
better  than  you  do." 

"Shuah  now,  does  you  tink  it's  dataway?"  and  Aun' 
Sheba  looked  up  with  hope  in  her  eyes. 

"Of  course  we  think  it's  that  way,"  said  Ella.  "Aun' 
Sheba,  you  know  a  heap,  as  you  say,  about  many  things, 
but  you  don't  half  know  how  good  you  are." 

"I  know  how  bad  I  is  anyhow.  I  tells  you  I  was  in  a 
dozin'  sleep." 

"Well,  I've  been  in  a  dozin'  sleep  many  a  time,"  said 
Ella,  "and  I'm  not  going  to  be  suspended  by  any  one,  not 
even  myself." 

"Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Mara  gently  but  firmly,  "you  know 


YOUNG    HOUGHTON  IS   DISCUSSED  195 

I'm  in  earnest,  and  how  much  I  love  jou  for  all  your  good- 
ness ever  since  I  was  a  helpless  baby.  You  wouldn't  say 
hard,  untrue  things  against  any  one  else.  You  have  no 
more  right  to  be  unjust  to  yourself.  As  Ella  says,  I  wish 
I  was  as  good  a  Christian  as  you  are." 

"Now,  Missy  Mara,  no  mo'  ob  dat  ar  talk.  I  knows  my 
inard  feelin's  bes'  ob  any  one.  What  Vilet  say  chirk  me  up 
po' fully,  kase  she  see  me  ebery  day.  I  tell  you  what  I'se 
gwine  ter  do;  I'se  gwine  ter  put  myself  on  'bation,  and  den 
see  wot  come  ob  it.  Now,  honeys,  I'se  'feered  long  nuff  wid 
business.  You'se  dun  me  good,  honey  lam's,  an'  de  Lawd 
bress  you  bofe,  I'se  tote  de  basket  a  heap  pearter  fer  dis 
yere  talk.  I  feels  a  monst'us  sight  betteh.  Wish  I  could 
see  you,  honey,  lookin'  as  plump  as  Missy  Ella.  Dat  do 
me  mos'  as  much  good  as  feelin'  'ligious." 

Mara  worried  Mrs.  Hunter  over  her  pretence  of  making 
a  dinner,  and  then  gladly  sought  the  solitude  of  her  own 
room.  At  last  she  said  with  a  bitter  smile,  "He  has  broken 
the  last  shred  that  bound  me."  Bat  as  the  hours  passed  in 
tumultuous  thoughts,  her  heart  told  her  how  vain  were  such 
words. 


196  THE    EARTH   TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   WARNING 

CAPTAIN  BODINE  was  halting  serenely  down  into 
that  new  vista  in  his  life  of  which  we  have  already 
spoken.  Every  day  both  promise  and  fulfilment 
seemed  richer  than  he  had  ever  imagined  any  future  ex- 
perience could  be.  He  was  domiciled  in  a  home  exactly  to 
his  taste;  his  cousin's  brave,  cheerful  spirit  was  infectious; 
the  worry  of  financial  straits  was  over,  and  Ella  was  bloom- 
ing and  happy.  These  favorable  changes  in  themselves 
would  have  done  much  toward  banishing  gloom  and  de- 
spondency; but  another  element  had  entered  into  his  ex- 
istence which  was  as  unexpected  as  it  was  sweet.  A  deep, 
subtile  exhilaration  was  growing  out  of  his  companionship 
with  Mara.  Every  long,  quiet  talk  that  he  enjoyed  with 
her  left  a  longing  for  another.  She  was  learning  to  regard 
him  almost  as  a  father,  but  he  did  not  think  of  her  as  he 
did  of  Ella.  He  loved  Ella  as  his  child,  but  her  buoyant 
spirit,  her  intense  enjoyment  of  the  present,  and  her  eager, 
hopeful  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  future,  separated  her  from 
him.  He  did  not  wish  it  otherwise  in  her  case,  for  he 
hoped  that  there  was  a  happy  future  for  her,  and  he  re- 
joiced daily  over  the  gladness  in  her  face.  Mara,  although 
so  young,  seemed  of  his  own  generation.  He  often  repeated 
to  himself  his  cousin's  words,  "She  is  as  old  as  you  are." 
She  appeared  to  live  in  the  past  as  truly  as  himself.  There 
was  scarcely  a  subject  on  which  they  were  not  in  sympathy. 


THE    WARNING  ^^^ 


He  believed  that  Mrs.  Bodine  was  right,  and  that  Mara  was 
essentially  different  from  others  of  her  age.  Indeed  the 
impression  grew  upon  him  that  the  mysterious  principle  of 
heredity  had  prepared  her  for  the  companionship  which  ap- 
parently was  valued  as  much  by  her  as  by  himself.  During 
the  many  hours  in  which  he  was  alone,  he  thought  the  sub- 
ject  over  m  all  its  aspects,  as  he  supposed,  and  a  hope,  ex- 
quisitely alluring,  began  to  take  form  in  his  heart. 

No  man  is  without  a  certain  amount  of  egotism  and  self- 
love,  and,  although  these  were  not  characteristics  of  Bodine, 
he  could  not  help  dwelling  upon  the  truth  that  the  remain- 
der  of  his  life  would  be  very  different  from  what  he  had  ex- 
pected could  Mara  be  near  to  him. 

Her  eloquent  look  of  sympathy  so  soon  after  they  met 
began  to  take  the  form  of  prophecy.  At  first  it  led  him  to 
believe  that  she  would  receive  a  paternal,  loving  regard, 
much  the  same  as  he  gave  to  Ella;  but,  as  time  passed,  he 
began  to  dwell  upon  the  possibility  of  a  closer  tie.  She  ap- 
peared  to  have  no  especial  friends  among  young  men,  nor 
indeed  to  care  for  any.  Might  not  a  strong,  quiet  affection 
grow  in  each  heart  until  they  could  become  one  in  the  closest 
sense,  even  as  they  were  now  one  in  so  many  of  their  thoughts 

and  views  ?  -,    ,      n    •        i  • 

It  was  natural  that  his  deepening  regard  should  tinge  his 
manner,  yet  Mara  dreamed  of  nothing  beyond  the  affection 
which  she  was  glad  to  receive  from  him.  Vigilant  eyes, 
however,  were  following  Captain  Bodine,  and  Clancy,  with 
a  lover's  jealous  intuition,  was  guessing  his  rival's  thoughts 
and  intentions  more  clearly  every  day.  He  did  not  adopt 
any  system  of  espionage,  nor  did  he  ask  questions  of  any 
one  but  merely  took  occasion  to  walk  on  the  Battery  at  an 
hour  when  it  was  most  frequented.  Here  he  often  saw  Mara 
and  the  veteran  enjoying  the  cool  sunset  hour,  and  some- 
times he  observed  that  Mara  saw  him.  So  far  from  shun- 
ning  such  observation,  he  not  infrequently  compelled  her 
recognition,  which  was  always  coldly  bestowed  upon  her 
part. 


198  THE    EARTH   TREMBLED 

"It  would  seem  that  Mr.  Clancy  is  more  inclined  to  be 
friendly  than  you  are, ' '  Bodine  remarked  one  evening. 

"Before  Mr.  Clancy  valued  Northern  friends  more  than 
Southern  ones  we  were  friendly,"  was  Mara's  quiet  reply. 
She  had  schooled  herself  now  into  outward  self-control,  but 
she  chafed  at  his  presence,  and  thought  he  happened  to  be 
near  her  too  frequently.  Still  it  was  ever  will  versus  heart, 
for  the  latter  always  acknowledged  him  as  master. 

He  was  satisfied  that  his  impressions  in  regard  to  Bodine 
were  correct,  and  was  impelled  by  his  love  to  make  an  effort 
to  save  her  from  drifting  into  relations  which  he  believed 
must  inevitably  destroy  her  chance  for  happiness.  His 
strong,  keen  mind  had  analyzed  her  every  word,  tone,  and 
varying  expression,  and  he  had  become  quite  sure  that  her 
bearing  toward  him  was  not  the  result  of  indifference,  but 
was  rather  due  to  pride,  and  a  resolute  purpose  not  to  yield 
to  him  unless  he  adopted  her  views.  He  also  understood 
her  sufficiently  well  to  dread  lest  a  morbid  sense  of  loyalty 
to  her  father's  memory  might  lead  her  to  accept  his  friend 
and  old  companion  in  arms. 

"Her  immediate  associates  would  encourage  the  idea," 
he  thought,  "and  there  are  none  to  advise  or  warn  her  ex- 
cept myself.  She  is  morbid  and  unbalanced  enough  to 
commit  just  such  a  fatal  error.  Her  bringing  up,  and  all 
the  influence  of  that  warped  Mrs.  Hunter,  would  lead  her 
to  sacrifice  herself  to  the  manes  of  her  ancestors.  Yet  how 
can  I  warn  her — how  can  I  reach  her  except  I  write  ?  I 
wish  to  look  into  lier  eyes  when  I  speak.  I  wish  to  plead 
with  her  witb  all  the  power  that  I  possibly  possess.  Great 
Heaven!  if  this  that  I  fear  should  happen,  what  an  awaken- 
iDg  she  might  have  when  it  was  too  late!" 

At  last  he  resolved  on  the  simplest  and  most  straightfor- 
ward course,  and  wrote — 

"Mara— Will  you  grant  me  one  more  interview — the  last,  unless  you  freely 
concede  others.  I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you,  something  that 
relates  far  more  to  your  happiness  than  to  my  own.  In  excuse  for  my  re- 
quest, I  have  nothing  better  to  plead  than  my  love  which  you  have  rejected,  and 


THE    WARNING  .  1^^ 

yet  which  entitles  me  to  some  consideration.  I  think  my  motive  is  unselfish 
—as  unselfish  as  can  be  possible  under  the  circumstances.  You  may  treat  me 
as  you  please,  but  your  welfare  will  always  be  dear  to  me.  1  shall  not  seek  to 
change  your  convictions,  nor  shall  I  plead  for  myself,  for  I  know  that  aU  this 
would  be  useless ;  but  I  wish  to  see  you  face  to  face  once  more  alone  m  your 
own  home.  I  must  also  request  that  Mrs.  Hunter  will  not  interfere  with  our 
interview.  You  are  not  a  child,  and  you  know  that  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
that  1  am  incapable  of  saying  a  word  at  variance  with  my  profound  respect  for 

Owen  Clancy." 

}  ou. 

Mara  was  deeply   agitated   by  this  missive.      Her  first 
emotion  was  that  of  anger,  as  much  at  herself  as  at  him— 
a  confused  resentment  that  his  words,  his  very  handwriting, 
should  so  move  her,  and  that  he  should  venture  to  write  at 
all.     Had  she  not  made  it  sufficiently  plain  that  he  had  no 
right  to  take,  or,  at  least,  to  manifest  any  such  interest  in 
her  affairs?     Were  all  her  e5orts  futile  to  hide  her  love? 
In  spite  of  her  habit  of  reserve  and  repression  she  had  a 
passionate  heart,  and  this  fact  had  been  forced  upon  her  by 
vain  and  continuous  struggles.     Had  he  the  penetration  to 
learn  the  truth?     She  could  not  tell,  and  this  uncertainty 
touched  her  pride  to  the  very  quick.     After  hours  of  wav- 
ering purpose,  impulses  to  ignore  him  and  his  request,  mo- 
ments of  tenderness  in  which  will,  pride,  and  every  consid- 
eration were  almost  overwhelmed,  she  at  last  arrived  at  a 
fixed  resolution.     ''1  will  see  him,"  she  murmured.     "He 
has  virtually  told  me  that  he  will  not  give  up  what  he  terms 
his  principles  for  love.     I  shall  not  acknowledge  my  secret, 
but  if  he  has  discovered  it,  he  shall  learn  that  I  also  will  not 
give  up  my  principles  for  love." 

The  next  morning  she  quietly  handed  Clancy's  note  to 

Mrs.  Hunter. 

"Shameful!"  ejaculated  the  lady.  "Of  course  you  will 
pay  no  attention  to  him,  or  else  write  a  curt  refusal.  I  in- 
sist on  one  course  or  the  other. 

Mara  looked  steadfastly  at  her  aunt  until  the  worthy  lady 
was  somewhat  disconcerted,  and  asked  fretfully,  "What  do 
you  mean  by  that  look,  Mara?" 


200  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Aunty,  can't  you  realize  that  I  am  no  longer  a  child,  as 
he  says?" 

"Well,  but  in  a  case  like  this—" 

"In  a  case  like  this  which  concerns  me  so  personally,  I 
must  act  according  to  my  own  Judgment.  You  can  be  in 
the  adjoining  room.  Indeed  I  have  n^^h^jection  to  your 
hearing  what  is  said,  but  I  would  rather  you  should  not. 
You  have  no  occasion  to  fear.  Mr.  Clancy  has  alienated 
me  forever.  I  have  no  doubt  that  before  the  summer  is 
over  he  will  be  engaged  to  Miss  Ainsley,  if  he  is  not  al- 
ready engaged  virtually.  I  have  reasons  for  granting  this 
final  interview  which  are  personal — which  my  self-respect 
requires,  and,  since  they  are  personal,  I  need  not  mention 
them.  There  shall  be  no  want  of  respect  and  affection  for 
you,  aunty,  but  you  must  realize  that  I  have  become  an  in- 
dependent woman,  and  I  have  the  entire  right  to  decide  cer- 
tain questions  for  myself." 

"Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  it  all,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter, 
coldly,  "and  since  my  strong  convictions  have  no  weight 
with  you,  and  you  intend  to  act  independently  of  me,  of 
course  I  shall  not  permit  myself  to  hear  a  word  of  your 
conversation." 

' '  That  will  be  the  more  delicate  and  honorable  course, 
aunty." 

"Well,  Mara,  I  only  wish  I  need  not  be  in  the  house  at 
the  time." 

"Aunty,  that  is  the  same  as  saying  that  your  enmity 
toward  Mr.  Clancy  is  greater  than  your  love  for  me." 

"But  I  don't  see  the  use  of  this  intensely  disagreeable 
interview.     This  is  the  only  home  I  have." 

"And  the  only  home  I  have  also,  aunty." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  will,  you  will,  I  reckon." 

"Yes,  if  1  will,  1  will^  and  Mr.  Clancy  shall  learn  that 
I  have  a  will." 

As  Aun'  Sheba  was  departing  that  morning,  Mara  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  hallway,  and,  placing  a  note  in  her  hand, 
said,  "Give  that  to  Mr.  Clancy  and  to  no  other.     Say  noth- 


THE    WARNING  201 

ing  to  him  or  to  any  one  else.  Do  you  understand,  Aun' 
Sheba?" 

"I  does,  honey.  Wen  you  talk  dataway  you'se  heah  an 
eyster  shoutin'  'fore  Aun'  Sheba  speak." 

Clancy  only  said,  "Thank  you,"  as  he  thrust  a  half- 
dollar  into  the  old  woman's  hand. 

Aun'  Sheba  laid  it  on  the  desk,  and  remarked  with  great 
dignity,  "I  does  some  tings  widout  money." 

He  paid  no  heed  to  her,  but  read  eagerly,  "Mr.  Clancy 
—Come  this  evening.     Mara  Wallingford." 

With  a  long  breath  he  thought,  "It  will  be  my  last 
chance.  I  fear  it  will  be  useless,  but  at  no  future  day  shall 
she  think  in  bitterness  of  heart,  'Re  might  have  done  more 
to  save  me.'  " 

There  was  no  sudden,  involuntary  illumination  of  her 
face  on  this  occasion  when  he  entered  her  little  parlor,  and 
she  could  not  help  noticing  that  his  face  was  pale.  She 
also  saw  from  his  expression  that  his  spirit  was  as  high  as 
hers;  that  there  was  not  a  trace  of  the  lover,  eager  to  plead 
his  cause.  "He  has  pleaded  successfully  elsewhere,"  she 
thought,  and,  in  spite  of  all  other  conflicting  feelings,  she 
was  curious  to  know  what  his  motive  could  be  in  seeking 
the  interview. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Clancy.  Will  you  sit  down  ?"  she 
said,  coldly. 

''Yes,  Mara.  Pardon  me  for  calling  you  Mara.  I  am 
beyond  any  affectation  of  formality  with  you,  and  you  know 
there  is  no  lack  of  respect  on  my  part. ' ' 

She  merely  bowed  and  waited  in  silence. 

"When  you  learn  my  motive  for  making  my  request,  for 
coming  here  to-night,  jou  will  probably  resent  it,  but  you 
have  taught  me  to  expect  little  else  except  resentment  from 
you." 

"Mr.  Clancy,  there  is  no  cause  for  such  language. 
Certainly  I  was  quietly  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  my 
way. ' ' 

"Do  you  understand  fully  whither  that  way  is  leading  ?" 


202  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

''Truly,  Mr.  Clancy,  that  is  a  singular  question  for  you 
to  ask." 

"1  understand  you,  Mara.  You  mean  that  it  is  no  afiair 
of  mine." 

He  knew  that  her  silence  gave  assent  to  this  view,  and 
he  answered  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

' '  Nevertheless  you  are  mistaken.  It  is  an  affair  of  mine. 
There  could  be  no  peace  for  me  in  the  future  if  I  failed  you 
now,  for  it  seems  to  me  1  am  the  only  true  friend  you  have 
in  the  world." 

"Mr.  Clancy,"  she  said  hotly,  **we  have  differed  so 
greatly  before  that  I  might  have  been  saved  the  pain 
of  this  interview,  but  we  never  differed  as  we  do  at  this 
moment.  I  cannot  listen  to  you  any  longer.  It  would  be 
disloyalty  to  those  who  are  true  friends — friends  that  I  love 
and  honor." 

"Do  you  love  Captain  Bodine  ?" 

"Certainly  1  do.  B.Q  was  my  father's  friend;  he  is  my 
honored  friend." 

"Do  you  love  Captain  Bodine  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  angrily,  flushing  to 
her  very  brow. 

"Mara,  be  calm.  Listen  to  me  as  you  value  your  life, 
as  you  value  your  own  soul.  Do  you  thiok  I  would  come 
here  for  slight  cause  at  such  cost  to  us  both  ?" 

"1  think  you  are  strangely  mistaken  in  coming  here, 
and  using  language  which  makes  me  doubt  your  sanity." 

"Please  do  me  the  justice  to  note  that  there  is  nothing 
wild  in  my  manner,  nor  any  excitement  in  my  words. ' ' 

"Noting  this,  I  find  it  more  difficult  to  explain  your 
course,  or  to  pardon  it." 

"It  is  not  necessary  at  present,  that  you  should  do  either. 
Please  be  patient  a  few  minutes  longer  and  my  mission  is 
ended.  I  am  not  pleading  for  myself,  but  for  you.  Please 
listen,  or  a  time  may  come  when  in  a  bitterness  beyond 
words  you  may  regret  that  you  did  not  hear  me.  Thank 
Heaven !  it  is  clear  that  I  have  not  come  too  late.     Captain 


THE    WARNING  203 

Bodine  is  more  than  your  friend  in  his  feelings;  he  is  your 
lover,  and  you  are  so  morbid,  unfriended,  unguided,  that 
you  are  capable  of  sacrificmg  yourself — " 

"Hush!  you  are  wronging  a  man  whom  you  are  un- 
worthy to  name.  He  has  never  dreamed  of  such  love  as 
you  suggest." 

"I  am  right.  Oh,  I  have  learned  too  deeply  in  the  school 
of  experience  not  to  know.  My  warning  may  be  of  no  avail, 
but  you  shall  not  drift  unawares  into  this  thing,  you  shall 
not  enter  into  it,  nor  be  persuaded  into  it  from  a  false  spirit 
of  self-sacrifice — " 

"Mr.  Clancy,  I  will  not  listen  a  moment  longer  to  such 
preposterous  language.  You  are  passing  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  my  forbearance.  If  your  conscience  is  burdened 
on  my  account  because  I  am  so  'unfriended,'  I  absolve  yoa 
fully.  You  will  and  do  know  how  to  console  yourself. 
Our  interview  must  end  here  and  now.  It  were  disloyalty 
for  me  to  listen  a  moment  longer.  We  are  strangers  from 
this  day  forth,  Mr.  Clancy."  And  she  rose  flushed  and 
trembling. 

He  also  rose,  and  with  an  intent  look  which  held  her 
gaze,  said  gently:  "There  is  that  which  will  speak  although 
I  am  banished." 

"What?" 

"Your  heart." 

"If  it  broke  a  thousand  times  I  will  not  speak  to  you 
again,"  she  cried  passionately.  "Even  if  you  were  right 
it  would  be  ignoble  to  suggest  such  a  thing.  Truly  your 
associations  have  led  you  far  from  the  promise  of  your 
youth." 

"I  have  not  said  that  your  heart  would  plead  for  me," 
he  replied  sternly.  "But  it  will  plead  against  all  that  is 
unnatural,  contrary  to  your  young  girlhood,  contrary  to 
the  true,  right  instincts  which  God  has  created.  You  may 
seek  to  stifle  its  voice,  but  you  cannot.  When  you  are  alone 
it  will  tell  you,  like  the  still  small  voice  of  God,  that  your 
obdurate  will  is  wrong,  that  your  narrow  prejudices  and 


204  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

morbid  memories  are  all  wrong  and  vain;— it  will  tell  you 
that  you  cannot  become  the  wife  of  this  man,  who  would 
sacrifice  you  as  a  solace  to  his  remaining  years,  without 
wrecking  your  happiness  for  life.  Farewell,  Mara  Walling- 
ford.  There  is  one  thing  you  can  never  forget — that  1 
warned  you." 

He  bowed  low  and  departed  immediately. 


THE   IDEA!''  205 


M 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

"the  idea!" 

AEA  was  not  the  kind  of  girl  that  faints  or  goes  into 
hysterics.  The  spirit  of  her  father  was  aroused  to 
the  last  degree.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  ar- 
raigned and  condemned  by  one  who  had  no  right  to  do 
either;  that  all  the  cherished  traditions  of  her  life  had 
been  trampled  upon;  that  her  father's  loved  companion- 
in-arms,  and  her  dear  friend,  had  been  insulted.  Even 
wise,  saintly  Mrs.  Bodine,  her  genial  counsellor,  had  been 
ignored.  "Was  there  ever  such  monstrous  assumption!" 
she  cried,  as  she  paced  back  and  forth  with  clinched  hands. 

She  soon  heard  the  step  of  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  became 
outwardly  calm. 

"Well?",  said  her  aunt. 

"He  won't  come  again,  nor  shall  I  speak  to  him  again. 
Let  these  facts  content  you,  aunty." 

"That  much  at  least  is  satisfactory,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter, 
"but  I  think  it  was  a  wretched  mistake  to  see  him  at  ail." 

"It  was  not  a  mistake,  for  he  has  revealed  the  depths 
into  which  a  man  can  sink  who  adopts  his  course.  I  have 
some  respect  for  an  out-and-out  Northerner,  brought  up  as 
such;  but  it  does  seem  that  when  a  man  turns  traitor,  as  it 
were,  he  goes  to  greater  lengths  than  those  whose  camp 
he  joins.  He  suspects  those  who  are  too  noble  for  him  to 
understand." 

"Whom  does  Mr.  Clancy  suspect?" 

"Oh,  all  of  us.  He  came  to  advise  me  as  an  unpro- 
tected, unfriended,  unguided  girl." 

"Was  there  ever  such  impudence  on  the  face  of  the  earth!" 


206  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Mara  sank  exhausted  into  a  chair  in  the  inevitable  re- 
action from  her  strong  excitement. 

"Aunty,  it  is  all  over,  and  we  shall  not  meet  again  ex- 
cept as  strangers.  Never  say  a  word  of  his  coming,  of  this 
interview,  to  any  one.  It  is  my  affair,  and  I  wish  to  forget 
it  as  far  as  possible." 

'Tou  know  I'm  not  a  gossip,  Mara,  about  family  mat- 
ters, especially  disagreeable  matters.  Well,  perhaps  it  will 
turn  out  for  the  best,  since  you  have  broken  with  him  en- 
tirely. It  always  made  me  angry  that  he  should  continue 
to  speak  to  you,  and  even  sit  down  and  talk  to  you  at  an 
evening  company,  when  you  could  not  repulse  him  without 
arresting  the  attention  of  every  one." 

"Good- night,  aunty.     All  that  is  over." 
"Mara,  you  must  take  an  opiate  to-night." 
"Yes;  give  me  something  to  make  me  sleep,  that  will 
bring  oblivion  for  at  least  to-night.    I  must  be  ready  for  my 
work  in  the  morning.     It  won't  take  me  long  now  to  attain 
self-control." 

"Mara,"  cried  Ella  the  next  day,  "you  look  positively 
ill.  I  wish  you  could  take  a  rest.  Suppose  we  shut  up 
shop  for  a  while,  and  hang  out  a  sign,  'closed  for  repairs.'  " 
"No,  Ella.  I  can  stand  it,  if  you  can,  till  August,  and 
then  we  will  take  a  month's  rest.  I  wasn't  very  well  last 
night,  but  I  have  found  a  remedy  which  is  going  to  help 
me,  and  I  shall  be  better." 

Ella  took  the  surface  meaning  of  these  words,  and,  being 
preoccupied  with  her  own  thoughts,  remained,  as  well  as 
Mara,  rather  silent  that  morning.  Although  she  assured 
herself  more  than  once  that  George  Houghton  was  "noth- 
ing to  her,"  she  found  herself  thinking  a  great  deal  about 
him,  and  what  she  termed  "their  droll  experiences."  Prone 
to  take  a  mirthful  view  of  everything,  she  often  laughed 
over  the  whole  affair,  and  it  grew  rather  than  lost  in  interest 
with  time.  It  was  the  first  real  adventure  of  her  girlhood, 
and  he  was  the  first  man  who  had  retained  more  than  a  tran- 
sient place  in  her  thoughts.    Feelina^  that  their  acquaintance 


''THE    IDEA!''  207 

had  come  about  through  no  fault  of  hers,  she  was  disposed 
to  get  all  the  fun  possible  out  of  what  had  occurred. 

The  morning  was  warm,  and  she  was  working  in  charm- 
ing dishabille.  Dressed  in  light  summer  costume,  thrown 
open  at  her  throat,  and  with  sleeves  rolled  to  her  shoulders, 
she  appeared  a  veritable  Hebe.  Her  bright,  golden,  fluffy 
hair  was  gathered  carelessly  into  a  Grecian  knot,  and  her 
flushed  face  received  more  than  one  flour-mark  as  she  impa- 
tiently brushed  away  the  flies.  Seeing  her  smiling  to  her- 
self so  often,  Mara  envied  her,  but  made  no  comment.  At 
last  the  girl  broke  into  a  ringing  laugh. 

"What  is  amusing  you  so  greatly?"  Mara  asked. 

"I  can't  get  over  that  party  at  Mrs.  Willoughby's.  It 
was  all  so  irresistibly  comical.  Cousin  Sophy  thinks  she 
has  a  genius  for  choosing  chaperons,  and  so  she  has,  but 
fate  is  too  strong  for  men  and  gods,  not  to  mention  saintly 
and  secluded  old  ladies.  I  had  scarcely  more  than  entered 
the  drawing-room,  and  taken  my  bearings,  as  cousin  would 
say,  when  the  worst  Vandal  of  the  lot  is  marched  up  to  me, 
and  I — green  little  girl — thought  I  must  be  polite  to  him 
and  every  one  else.  When  I  think  of  it  all,  I  see  that  my 
chaperon  was  like  a  distressed  hen  with  a  duckling  that 
would  go  into  the  water.  Without  any  effort  of  mine,  that 
great  Goth,  Mr.  Houghton,  submitted  himself  to  my  in- 
spection, and  instead  of  being  horrified,  I  have  been  laugh- 
ing at  him  ever  since.  He  struck  me  as  an  exceedingly 
harmless  creature,  with  large  capabilities  for  blundering. 
He  would  not  step  on  a  fly  maliciously,  yet  poor  Mrs.  Rob- 
ertson acted  as  if  I  were  near  an  ogre  who  might  devour  me 
at  a  mouthful.  How  she  did  manoeuvre  to  keep  that  big 
fellow  away!  and  what  a  homily  she  gave  me  on  our  way 
home!  It  all  seems  so  absurd.  I  wish  papa  would  not  take 
such  things  so  seriously,  for  I  can't  see  any  harm  in  making 
sport  of  the  Philistines." 

''Making  sport  for  the  Philistines — that  is  what  your 
father  and  what  we  all  object  to.  This  young  Houghton 
would  very  gladly  amuse  himself  at  your  expense." 


208  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"I'd  like  to  see  him  try  it,"  said  Ella  defiantly.  "I'd 
turn  the  tables  on  him  so  quickly  as  to  take  away  his 
breath." 

"Oh,  Ella!  why  do  you  think  about  such  people  at  all?" 

"Because  they  amuse  me.  What's  the  harm  in  think- 
ing about  him  in  my  jolly  way  ?  There's  nothing  bad  about 
him.  His  worst  crimes  are,  that  he  is  comical  and  the  son 
of  his  father." 

"How  do  you  know  there's  nothing  bad  about  him  ?" 

"For  the  same  reason  that  I  distrust  Miss  Ainsley.  Each 
makes  an  impression  which  I  believe  is  correct." 

"Well,  well,  Ella,"  said  Mara,  a  little  impatiently, 
"laugh  it  out  and  have  done  with  him.  For  all  our  sakes, 
please  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  such  people." 

"I  haven't  sought  'such  people,'  "  replied  Ella,  with  a 
shrug;  "but  1  tell  you,  Mara,  I'm  not  going  through  life 
with  my  eyes  shut,  nor  am  I  going  to  look  through  a  pair 
of  blue  spectacles.  See  here,  sweetheart,  what  did  God  give 
me  eyes  for  ?  W  hat  did  he  give  me  a  brain  for  ?  To  see 
through  some  one  else's  eyes?  to  think  with  the  brain  of 
another?  No,  indeed;  that's  contrary  to  such  reason  and 
common-sense  as  I  possess." 

"You  certainly  will  be  guided  by  your  father?" 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed,  in  all  that  pertains  to  his  welfare  and 
happiness.  I  could  die  for  him  this  minute,  and  would  if  it 
were  required.  But  there  are  things  which  I  cannot  do  for 
him  or  any  one.  I  cannot  ignore  my  own  conscience  and 
sense  of  right.  I  cannot  think  his  thoughts  any  more  than 
he  can  think  mine.  You  dear,  melancholy  little  goose, 
don't  you  know  that  God  never  rolls  two  people  into  one, 
even  after  they  are  married?  They  are,  or  should  be,  one 
in  a  vital  sense,  yet  they  are  different,  independent  beings, 
and  were  made  so.  I'd  like  to  know  of  any  one  in  this  town 
more  bent  upon  having  her  own  way  than  you." 

Mara  was  silent,  for  Ella  had  a  way  of  putting  things 
which  disturbed  her. 

"Cousin  Sophy, "  said  Ella  in  the  afternoon,  "hasn't  the 


*'THE    IDEA!''  209 

proper  time  come  for  me  to  make  my  party  call  on  Mrs, 
Willoughby  ?  You  are  my  Mentor  in  all  that  relates  to 
etiquette,  and  that  giddy  fraction  of  the  world  termed 
society." 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  old  lady,  "I  suppose  it  is  time. 
In  the  case  of  Mrs.  Willoughby  it  will  be  little  more  than 
a  formality,  for  she  is  an  acquaintance  you  will  not  care  to 
caltivate.  You  may  be  lucky  enough  to  find  her  out,  and 
then  your  card  will  answer  all  the  purposes  of  a  call." 

"Oh,  I  know  that  much,  cousin,  if  I  am  from  the  wilds 
of  the  interior;  but  if  she  is  in,  I  suppose  I  should  sit  down 
and  talk  about  the  weather  a  little  while." 

"Go  along,  you  saucy  puss.  Tell  her  how  shocked  you 
were  to  see  old  Houghton's  son  in  her  parlors." 

"Well,  I  was  at  fii*st.  Bah!  cousin,  he's  a  great  big  boy, 
and  doesn't  know  any  more  than  I  do  about  some  things." 

"Well  added.  Tell  her,  then,  we  have  enough  South- 
ern gentlemen  remaining,  and  there  is  no  necessity  of  invit- 
ing big  Northern  hobble-de-hoys." 

"Oh!  I  didn't  mean  that,  cousin.  Be  fair  now.  He  was 
gentlemanly  enough,  as  much  so  as  the  rest  of  them,  but  he 
was  young  and  giddy,  like  myself,  just  as  you  used  to  be 
and  are  now  sometimes;"  and  she  stopped  the  old  lady's 
mouth  with  kisses,  then  ran  to  dress  for  the  street. 

The  kitchen  Hebe  of  the  morning  was  soon  metamor- 
phosed into  a  very  charmingly  costumed  young  woman. 
Even  Miss  Ainsley  was  compelled  to  recognize  the  lovely 
and  harmonious  effect,  although  it  did  not  bear  the  latest 
brand  of  fashion,  or  represent  costly  expenditure. 

Both  she  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  were  pleased  as  Ella 
stepped  lightly  into  the  back  parlor,  and  the  young  girl 
congratulated  herself  that  she  had  come  so  opportunely, 
for  they  were  evidently  expecting  visits  like  her  own. 

One  and  another  dropped  in  until  Mrs.  Willoughby  was 
entertaining  three  or  four  in  the  front  parlor.  Miss  Ainsley 
remained  chatting  with  Ella,  who  felt  that  the  Northern  girl's 
remarks  were  largely  tentative,  evincing  a  wish  to  draw  her 


210  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

out.  Shrewd  Ella  soon  began  to  generalize  to  such  a  degree 
that  Miss  Ainsley  thought,  "You  are  no  fool,"  and  had  a 
growing  respect  for  the  "little  baker,"  as  she  had  termed 
the  young  girl. 

Then  Clancy  appeared,  and  Ella  was  forgotten,  but  she 
saw  the  same  unmistakable  welcome  which  from  some  wo- 
men would  mean  all  that  a  lover  could  desire.  Ella  thought 
that  a  slight  expression  of  vexation  crossed  his  brow  as  he 
recognized  in  her  Mara's  partner  and  friend,  but  he  spoke 
to  her  politely  and  even  cordially.  Indeed,  no  one  could 
do  otherwise,  for  her  face  would  propitiate  an  ogre.  She 
thought  there  was  a  spice  of  recklessness  in  Clancy's  man- 
ner, and  she  heard  him  remark  to  Miss  Ainsley  that  he 
had  come  to  say  good-by  for  a  short  time.  That  young 
woman  led  the  way  to  the  balcony  and  began  to  expostu- 
late; and  then  Ella's  attention  was  riveted  on  a  tall  young 
fellow,  who  was  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  thought,  "what  can  1  do  if  he  sees 
me?  How  can  I  'shake  off  and  avoid'  in  this  back  parlor? 
I  can't  make  a  bolt  for  the  front  door  or  sneak  out  of  the 
back  door;  I  can't  sit  here  like  a  graven  image  if  he  comes — " 

"Miss  Bodine!    Well,  I'm  lucky  for  once  in  my  ill-fated 

life." 

"Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,"  remarked  Ella,  turning  from 
the  window,  out  of  which  she  had  apparently  been  gazing 
with  intense  preoccupation.  "Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Hough- 
ton." But  he  held  out  his  hand  with  such  imperative  cor- 
diality that  she  had  to  take  it.  Then  he  drew  up  a  chair  to 
the  corner  of  the  sofa  on  which  she  sat  and  placed  it  in  a 
way  that  barred  approach  or  egress.  "Oh,  shade  of  Mrs. 
Hunter!"  she  groaned  inwardly,  "what  can  I  do?  I'm 
fairly  surrounded — all  avenues  of  retreat  cut  ofl:.  I  must 
face  the  enemy  and  fight. ' ' 

"I  knew  the  chance  would  come  for  us  to  get  acquainted, 
said  Houghton,  settling  himself  complacently  in  the  great 
armchair,  "but  I  had  scarcely  hoped  for  such  a  happy  op- 
portunity as  this  so  soon. 


''THE   IDEA!''  211 

"I  must  go  in  a  few  minutes,"  she  remarked  demurely. 
'T  have  been  here  some  time." 

''Miss  Bodine,  you  are  not  capable  of  such  cruelty.  You 
know  it  is  very  early  yet. ' ' 

"I  thought  you  came  to  call  on  Mrs.  Willoughby  ?" 

"So  I  did,  and  I  have  called  on  her.  See  her  talking 
ancient  history  to  those  dowagers  yonder.  What  a  figure 
I'd  cut  in  that  group." 

She  laughed  outright,  as  much  from  nervous  trepidation 
as  at  the  comical  idea  suggested,  and  was  in  an  inward  rage 
that  she  did  so,  for  she  had  intended  to  be  so  dignified  and 
cool  as  to  depress  and  discourage  the  "objectionable  person" 
who  hedged  her  in. 

"What  a  jolly,  infectious  laugh  you  have!"  he  resumed. 
"To  be  able  to  laugh  well  is  a  rare  accomplishment.  Some 
snicker,  others  giggle,  chuckle,  cackle,  make  all  sorts  of  dis- 
agreeable noises,  but  a  natural,  merry,  musical  laugh — Miss 
Bodme,  I  congratulate  you,  and  myself  also,  that  I  hap- 
pened in  this  blessed  afternoon  to  hear  it.  And  that  ter- 
rible chaperon  of  yours  isn't  here  either.  How  she  frowned 
on  me  the  other  evening  as  if  I  were  a  wolf  in  the  fold," 
and  the  young  man  broke  into  a  clear  ringing  laugh  at  the 
recollection. 

Ella  was  laughing  with  him  in  spite  of  herself.  Indeed 
the  more  she  tried  to  be  grave  and  severe  the  more  impos- 
sible it  became. 

"Mr.  Houghton,"  she  managed  to  say  at  last,  "will  you 
do  me  a  favor?" 

"Scores  of  them." 

"Then  stop  making  me  laugh.     I  don't  wish  to  laugh." 

His  face  instantly  assumed  such  portentous  and  awful 
gravity  that  he  set  her  off  again  to  such  a  degree  that  the 
dowagers  in  the  other  room  looked  at  her  rebukingly.  It 
was  bad  enough,  they  thought,  that  she  should  talk  to  old 
Houghton's  son  at  all,  but  to  show  such  unbecoming  levity 
— well,  it  was  not  what  they  would  "expect  of  a  Bodine." 
Ella  saw  their  disapproval,  and  felt  she  was  losing  her  self- 


212  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

control.  The  warnings  she  had  received  against  her  com- 
panion embarrassed  her,  and  banished  the  power  to  be  her 
natural  self. 

"Please  don't,"  she  gasped,  "or  1  shall  go  at  once.  I 
asked  a  favor." 

"Pardon  me.  Miss  Bodine,"  he  now  said  in  a  tone  and 
manner  which  quieted  her  nerves  at  once.  "I  have  blun- 
dered again,  but  I  was  so  happy  to  think  that  I  had  met 
you  here.  I  am  not  wholly  a  rattle-brain.  What  would 
you  like  to  talk  about?"  and  he  looked  so  kindly  and 
eager  to  please  her  that  she  cast  down  her  eyes  and  con- 
tracted her  brow  in  deepest  perplexity. 

"Truly,  Mr.  Houghton,  I  should  be  on  my  way  home- 
ward, and  you  have  so  hedged  me  in  that  I  cannot  escape." 

"Is  running  away  from  me  escaping?" 

"I  don't  like  that  phrase  'running  away.'  " 

"Yet  that  is  what  you  propose  to  do." 

"Oh,  no,  I  shall  take  my  departure  in  a  very  composed 
and  dignified  manner." 

His  face  had  the  expression  of  almost  boyish  distress. 
"You  find  on  further  thought  that  you  cannot  forgive  me  ?" 
he  asked  sadly. 

"Did  I  not  say  that  was  all  explained  and  settled? 
Southern  girls  are  not  fickle  or  false  to  their  word."  And 
she  managed  to  assume  an  aspect  of  great  dignity.  "If  I 
do  not  shake  him  off  in  the  next  few  minutes  I'm  lost,"  she 
thought. 

"I've  offended  you  again,"  he  said  anxiously. 

She  took  refuge  in  silence. 

"Miss  Bodine,  I  ask  your  pardon.  You  know  I  can't  do 
more  than  that,  or  if  I  can,  tell  me  what.  I  wish  to  please 
you  very  much." 

The  girl  was  at  her  wit's  end,  for  his  ingenuous  expres- 
sion emphasized  the  truth  of  his  words.  ' '  There  is  no  rea- 
son why  you  should  please  me, ' '  she  began  coolly,  and  then 
knew  not  how  to  proceed. 

"Let  us  be  frank  with  each  other,"  he  resumed  earnestly. 


''THE    IDEA!''  213 

"We  are  too  young  yet  to  indulge  in  society  lies.  When  a 
man  apologizes  at  the  North  he  is  forgiven.  I  have  been 
told  that  Southerners  are  a  generous,  warm-hearted  people. 
In  their  cool  treatment  of  me  they  counteract  the  climate. 
Are  you,  too,  going  to  ostracize  me  ?' ' 

*'I  fear  I  shall  have  to,"  she  replied  faintly. 

"Of  your  own  free  will?" 

"No,  indeed." 

His  heart  gave  a  great  throb  of  joy,  but  he  had  the  sense 
to  conceal  his  gladness.  He  only  said  quietly,  "Well,  I'm 
glad  that  you  at  least  do  not  detest  me." 

"Why  should  I  detest  you,  Mr.  Houghton  ?" 

"I'm  sure  1  don't  know  why  any  one  should.  I  have 
never  harmed  any  one  in  this  town  that  I  know  of. ' ' 

She  knew  not  how  to  answer,  for  she  could  not  reflect 
upon  his  father. 

"I  don't  care  about  others,  but  your  case." 

"Truly,  Mr.  Houghton,"  she  began  hastily,  "this  is  a 
large  city.  A  few  impoverished  Southern  people  are  noth- 
ing to  you." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  Southern  people,"  he  replied 
gravely.  "You  said  a  moment  since  you  saw  no  reason 
why  I  should  try  to  please  you.  Am  I  to  blame  if  you 
have  inspired  many  reasons  ?  I  know  you  better  than  any 
girl  in  the  world.  You  revealed  your  very  self  in  a  mo- 
ment of  danger  to  me  as  you  thought.  I  saw  that  you  were 
good  and  brave — that  you  possess  just  the  qualities  that  I 
most  respect  and  admire  in  a  woman.  Every  moment  I  am 
with  you  confirms  this  belief.  Why  should  I  not  wish  to 
please  you,  to  become  your  friend  ?  I  know  I  should  be 
the  better  in  every  respect  if  you  were  my  friend. ' ' 

She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  venture  to  look  at  him. 

"You  believe  I  am  sincere,  Miss  Bodine.  You  cannot 
think  I  am  sentimental  or  flirtatious.  I  would  no  more  do 
you  wrong,  even  m  my  thoughts,  than  I  would  think  evil 
of  my  dead  mother.  You  are  mirthful  in  your  nature;  so 
am  I,  but  I  do  not  think  that  either  of  us  is  shallow  or  silly. 


214  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

If  I  am  personally  disagreeable,  that  ends  everything,  but 
how  can  a  man  secure  the  esteem  and  friendly  regard  of  a 
woman,  when  he  covets  these  supremely,  unless  he  speaks 
and  reveals  his  feelings?" 

"You  are  talking  wildly,  Mr.  Houghton,"  said  Ella, 
with  averted  face.     ''We  have  scarcely  more  than  met. " 

"You  would  lead  me  to  think  that  you  Southern  people 
are  tenfold  colder  and  more  deliberate  than  we  of  the  North. 
You  may  not  have  thought  of  me  since  we  met,  but  I  have 
thought  of  you  constantly.     I  could  not  help  it." 

Ella  felt  that  she  must  escape  now  as  if  for  her  life,  and, 
summoning  all  her  faculties  and  resolution,  she  said,  look- 
ing him  in  the  eyes,  "I've  no  doubt,  Mr.  Houghton,  you 
think  you  are  sincere  in  your  words  at  this  moment,  but  you 
may  soon  wonder  that  you  spoke  such  hasty  words." 

"In  proving  you  mistaken,  time  will  be  my  ally.' 

"You  have  asked  me  to  be  frank,"  she  resumed,.  "In 
justice  to  you  and  myself  I  feel  that  I  must  be  so.  I  do  not 
share  in  the  prejudices,  if  you  prefer  that  word,  of  my 
father,  but  I  must  be  governed  by  his  wishes.  I  trust  that 
you  will  not  ask  me  to  say  more.  Won't  you  please  let  me 
go  now  ?     See,  the  last  guests  are  leaving. ' ' 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  he  pleaded  eagerly  as  he  rose.  "I 
am  not  personally  disagreeable  to  you  ?' ' 

"The  idea  of  my  telling  you  anything  of  the  kind!"  and 
there  was  a  flash  of  mirthfulness  in  her  face  which  left  him 
in  a  most  tormenting  state  of  uncertainty.  A  moment  later 
she  had  shaken  hands  with  Mrs.Willoughby,  and  was  gone. 

He  stood  looking  after  her,  half-dazed  by  his  conflicting 
feelings.  Turning,  Mrs.  Willoughby  saw  and  understood 
him  at  once.  She  came  to  his  side  and  said  kindly,  "Sit 
down,  Mr.  Houghton,  I've  not  had  a  chance  to  talk  with 
you  yet." 

With  an  involuntary  sigh  he  complied. 


FEMININE   FRIENDS  215 


M 


CHAPTER   XXV 

FEMININE      FRIENDS 

RS.  WILLOUGrHBY  was  a  woman  of  the  world,  yet 
in  no  bad  sense.  Indeed,  beneath  the  veneer  of 
fashionable  life  she  possessed  much  kindliness 
of  nature.  She  was  capable  of  a  good  deal  of  cynicism 
toward  those  who  she  said  "ought  to  be  able  to  take  care 
of  themselves,"  and  in  this  category  she  placed  Clancy  and 
Miss  Ainsley.  "I  shall  leave  both  to  paddle  their  own 
canoes,"  she  had  said  to  herself. 

Looking  kindly  at  Houghton,  who  seemed  to  have  lost 
his  volubility,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak  again,  she 
thought:  "If  this  young  fellow  was  infatuated  with  Caro- 
line I'd  warn  him  quick  enough."  With  the  astuteness  of 
a  matron  she  merely  remarked:  "You  seem  greatly  pleased 
with  my  little  friend.  Miss  Bodine.  You  must  not  trifle  with 
her,  if  she  is  poor,  for  she  comes  of  one  of  the  best  families 
in  the  State." 

"Trifle  with  Miss  Bodine  I  What  do  you  take  me  for, 
Mrs.  Willoughby  ?"  and  he  rose  indignantly. 

"There,  now,  sit  down,  my  friend.  I  only  said  that  so 
you  might  reveal  how  sincere  you  are,  and  I  won't  use  any 
more  diplomacy  with  you." 

"I  hope  not,"  he  replied  laughing  grimly.  "You  ought 
to  know,  what  I  am  fast  finding  out,  that  a  young  fellow, 
like  me,  can  no  more  understand  a  woman,  unless  she  is 
frank,  than  he  can  Choctaw." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  laughed  heartily,  and  said:  "I'll  be 
frank  with  you,  if  you  will  be  so  with  me." 


216  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

"Then  tell  me  why  I  am  treated  by  so  many  in  your  set 
as  if  I  had  overrun  the  South  with  fire  and  sword?" 

His  first  question  proved  that  she  could  not  be  frank,  for 
in  order  to  give  an  adequate  explanation  she  would  have  to 
reveal  to  him  his  father's  animus  and  the  hostility  it  evoked. 
She  temporized  by  saying:  *'I  do  not  so  treat  you,  and 
surely  Miss  Bodine  seemed  to  enjoy  your  conversation." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  At  any  rate  she  said  she 
would  have  to  ostracize  me  like  the  rest." 

"She  was  kind  in  telling  you  that  she  would  have  to  do 
so.     She  certainly  bears  you  no  ill-will." 

"She  probably  does  not  care  enough  about  me  yet  to  do 
that.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  1  shall  have  no  chance.  Her 
father  objects  to  her  having  anything  to  do  with  me,  and 
that  blocks  everything.  Even  if  I  were  capable  of  seeking 
a  clandestine  acquaintance,  she  is  not.  She  is  a  thoroughly 
good  girl;  she  doesn't  know  how  to  be  deceitful." 

"I'm  glad  you  appreciate  her  so  truly." 

"I'd  be  a  donkey  if  I  didn't." 

"Well,  don't  be  unwise  in  your  future  action." 

"What  action  can  I  take?"  and  he  looked  at  her  almost 
imploringly.  A  young  man  of  his  age  is  usually  very  ready 
to  make  a  confidante  of  a  married  woman  older  than  himself, 
yet  young  enough  to  sympathize  with  him  in  affairs  of  the 
heart.  Houghton  instinctively  felt  that  the  case  might  not 
be  utterly  hopeless  if  he  could  secure  an  ally  in  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby,  for  he  recognized  her  tact,  and  believed  that  she 
was  friendly.  He  promptly  determined  therefore  to  seek 
and  to  take  her  advice. 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly  as  she  said:  "Perhaps  it 
would  be  best  not  to  take  any  action  at  all.  If  Miss  Bodine 
has  made  only  a  passing  and  pleasant  impression,  and  you 
merely  desire  to  secure  another  agreeable  acquaintance 
you  had  better  stop  where  you  are.  It  will  save  you  much 
annoyance,  and,  what  is  of  far  more  consequence,  may  keep 
her  from  real  trouble.  As  you  suggest,  you  cannot  do  any- 
thing in  an  underhand  way.    If  you  attempted  it,  you  would 


FEMININE   FRIENDS  217 

lose  her  respect  instantly,  your  own  also.  She  idolizes  her 
father,  and  will  not  act  contrary  to  his  wishes.  Why  not 
let  the  matter  drop  where  it  is?" 

**Can't  take  any  such  advice  as  that,"  he  replied,  shak- 
ing his  head  resolutely. 

*' Why  not?" 

*'0h,  confound  it!  Suppose  some  one,  years  ago,  had 
advised  Mr.  Willoughby  in  such  style." 

"Is  it  as  serious  as  that  ?" 

He  passed  his  hand  in  perplexity  over  his  brow.  *'Mrs. 
Willoughby,  he  burst  out,  "I'm  in  deep  water.  *I  reckon,' 
as  you  say  here,  you  understand  me  better  than  I  do  my- 
self. I  only  know  that  I'd  face  all  creation  for  the  sake 
of  that  girl,  yet  what  you  say  about  making  her  trouble, 
staggers  me.  I'm  in  sore  perplexity,  and  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

"Will  you  take  my  advice?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  as  long  as  I  believe  you  are  my  honest 
friend,  as  long  as  I  can." 

"Well,  you  won't  try  to  see  Ella  before  you  have  con- 
sulted me?" 

"I  promise  that." 

"Don't  do  anything  at  present  Think  the  matter  over 
quietly  and  conscientiously.  I'm  sorry  I  must  make  one 
other  suggestion.  I  fear  your  father  would  be  as  much  op- 
posed to  all  this  as  Captain  Bodine  himself." 

"I  think  not.  My  father  is  not  so  stern  as  he  seems. 
At  least  he  is  not  stern  to  me,  and  he  has  let  me  spend 
more  money  than  my  neck's  worth.  I  fancy  he  is  well  dis- 
posed toward  Captain  Bodine,  for  he  has  given  him  employ- 
ment. I  asked  the  old  gentleman  about  it  one  day,  but  he 
changed  the  subject.  He  wouldn't  have  employed  the 
captain,  however,  unless  he  was  interested  in  him  some 
way   ' 

"Why  wouldn't  he?" 

'  Oh,  well,  he  naturally  prefers  to  have  Northerners 
about  him." 

J— Roe— XV 


218  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

'*Will  you  permit  me  to  be  a  little  more  frank  than  I 
have  been  ?' ' 

"I  supposed  jou  were  going  to  be  altogether  frank," 

"For  fear  of  hurting  your  feelings  I  have  not  been. 
Your  father  is  not  friendly  to  us,  and  we  reciprocate.  This 
makes  it  harder  for  you. ' ' 

Houghton  thought  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
said:  "You  should  make  allowance  for  an  old  man,  half 
heart-broken  by  the  death  of  his  oldest  son,  drowned  in  the 
bay  there." 

"I  do;  so  would  others,  if  he  were  not  vindictive,  if  he 
did  not  use  his  great  financial  strength  against  us." 

"I  don't  think ^he  does  this,  certainly  not  to  my  knowl- 
edge. He  only  seeks  to  make  all  he  can,  like  other  busi- 
ness men." 

"Mr.  Houghton,  you  haven't  been  very  much  in  Charles- 
ton. Even  your  vacations  have  been  spent  mainly  else- 
where, I  think,  and  your  mind  has  been  occupied  with  your 
studies  and  athletics.  You  are  more  familiar  with  Greek 
and  Roman  history  than  with  ours,  and  you  cannot  under- 
stand the  feelings  of  persons  like  Captain  Bodine  and  his 
cousin,  old  Mrs.  Bodine,  who  passed  through  the  agony 
of  the  war,  and  lost  nearly  everything — kindred,  property, 
and  what  they  deem  liberty.  You  cannot  understand  your 
own  father,  who  lost  his  son.  You  think  of  the  present  and 
future. ' ' 

Houghton  again  sighed  deeply  as  he  said:  "I  admit  the 
force  of  all  you  say.  I  certainly  cannot  feel  as  they  do,  nor 
perhaps  understand  them."  Then  he  added:  "I  wouldn't 
if  I  could.  Why  should  I  tie  the  millstone  of  the  past 
about  my  neck?" 

"You  should  not  do  so;  but  you  must  make  allowance 
for  those  to  whom  that  past  is  more  than  the  present  or 
future  can  be." 

"Why  can't  they  forgive  and  forget,  as  far  as  possible, 
as  you  do?" 

"Because  people  are  differently  constituted.     Besides, 


FEMININE   FRIENDS  219 

young  man,  I  am  not  old  enough  to  be  your  grandmother. 
I  was  very  young  at  the  time  of  the  war,  and  have  not 
suffered  as  have  others." 

" Grandmother,  indeed!  I  should  think  that  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  would  fall  in  love  with  you  every  day." 

' '  The  grand  passion  has  a  rather  prominent  place  in  your 
thoughts  just  now.  Some  day  you  will  be  like  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby,  and  cotton,  stocks,  or  their  equivalents,  will  take 
a  very  large  share  of  your  thoughts." 

"Well,  that  day  hasn't  come  yet.  Even  the  wise  man 
said  there  was  a  time  for  all  things.  How  long  must  my 
probation  last  before  I  can  come  back  for  more  advice  ?' ' 

"A  week,  at  least." 

"Phew!" 

"You  must  think  it  all  over,  as  I  said  before,  calmly  and 
conscientiously.  1  have  tried  to  enable  you  to  see  the  sub- 
ject on  all  its  sides,  and  I  tell  you  again  that  you  may  find 
just  as  much  opposition  from  your  father  as  from  Captain 
Bodine.  He  may  have  very  different  plans  for  you.  Ella 
Bodine  has  nothing  but  her  own  good  heart  to  give  you, 
supposing  you  were  able  to  persuade  her  to  give  that  much. " 

"That  much  would  enrich  me  forever." 

"Your  father  wouldn't  see  it  in  that  light.  He  may  call 
her  that  designing  little  baker." 

"I  hope  he  won't  for  God's  sake.  I  never  said  a  hot 
word  to  my  father." 

"Never  do  so,  then.  If  you  lose  your  temper,  all  is  lost. 
But  we  are  anticipating.  Sober,  second  thoughts  may  lead 
you  to  save  yourself  and  others  a  world  of  trouble." 

"Oh!  I've  had  second  thoughts  before.  Good-by.  At 
this  hour,  one  week  hence;"  and  he  shook  hands  heartily. 

A  moment  later,  he  came  rushing  back  from  the  hall, 
exclaiming :  ' '  There !  See,  what  a  blunderbuss  I  am !  I  for- 
got to  thank  you,  which  I  do,  with  all  my  heart." 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  mature  woman,  as  her  guest  finally 
departed,  "I'd  take  all  his  pains  for  the  possibilities  of  his 
joys." 


220  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Ella  had  not  been  mistaken  in  thinking  that  she  detected 
a  trace  of  recklessness  in  Clancy's  manner.  He  had  been 
compelled  to  believe  that  Mara  was  in  truth  lost  to  him; 
that  her  will  and  pride  would  prove  stronger  than  her 
heart.  Indeed,  he  went  so  far  as  to  believe  that  her  heart, 
as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  not  giving  her  very  much 
trouble. 

"I  fear  she  has  become  so  morbid  and  warped  by  the 
malign  influences  that  have  surrounded  her  from  infancy," 
he  had  thought,  "that  she  cannot  love  as  I  love.  My  best 
hope  now  is,  that  when  Bodine  begins  to  show  his  game 
more  clearly,  she  will  remember  my  words.  It's  horrible 
to  think  that  she  may  develop  into  a  woman  like  Mrs. 
Hunter.  Until  this  evening,  I  have  always  believed  there 
was  a  sweet,  womanly  soul  imprisoned  in  her  bosom,  but 
now  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I'll  go  ofi  to  the  moun- 
tains on  the  pretence  of  a  fishing  excursion,  and  get  my 
balance  again." 

The  following  morning  had  been  spent  in  preparations, 
and  the  afternoon,  as  we  have  seen,  found  him  at  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby's.  His  sore  heart  and  bitter  mood  were  solaced  by 
Miss  Ainsley's  unmistakable  welcome.  He  knew  he  did  not 
care  for  her  in  any  deep  and  lasting  sense,  and  he  much 
doubted  whether  her  interest  in  him  was  greater  than  that 
which  she  had  bestowed  upon  others  in  the  past.  But  she 
diverted  his  thoughts,  flattered  the  self-love  which  Mara 
had  wounded  so  ruthlessly,  and  above  all  fascinated  him 
by  her  peculiar  beauty  and  intellectual  brilliancy. 

"Why  are  you  going  away?"  she  asked  reproachfully, 
when  they  were  seated  on  the  balcony. 

"Oh,  I've  been  working  hard.  I'm  going  off  to  the 
mountains  to  fish  and  rest." 

"I  hope  you'll  catch  cold,  and  come  back  again  soon." 

"What  a  disinterested  friend!" 

"You  are  thinking  only  of  yourself;  why  shouldn't  I  do 
likewise  ?' ' 

"No,  I'm  thinking  of  you." 


FEMININE    FRIENDS  221 

*'0f  course,  at  this  minute.  You'd  be  apt  to  think  of  a 
lamp-post  if  you  were  looking  at  it." 

*' Please  don't  put  out  the  sunshine  with  jour  brilliancy.'* 

"Ironical,  too!     What  is  the  matter  to-day  ?" 

"What  penetration!  Keveal  your  intuitions.  Have  I 
failed  in  business,  or  been  crossed  in  love?" 

"The  latter,  I  fancy." 

' '  Well,  then,  how  can  I  better  recover  peace  of  mind  and 
serenity  than  by  going  a-fishing  ?  You  know  what  Izaak 
Walton  says — " 

"Oh,  spare  me,  please,  that  ancient  worthy!  You  are 
as  cold-blooded  as  any  fish  that  you'll  catch.  If  I  find  it 
stupid  in  Charleston  I'll  go  North." 

"That  threat  shakes  my  very  soul.  1  promise  to  come 
back  in  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"  Or  a  month  or  so, ' '  she  added,  looking  hurt. 

"Come,  my  good  friend,"  he  said,  laughing.  *' We're 
too  good  fellows,  as  you  wished  we  should  be,  to  pretend  to 
any  forlornness  over  a  parting  of  this  kind.  You  will  sleep 
as  sweetly  and  dreamlessly  as  if  you  had  never  seen  Owen 
Clancy,  and  I  will  write  you  a  letter,  such  as  a  man  would 
write  to  a  man,  telling  you  of  my  adventures.  If  I  don't 
meet  any  I'll  bring  some  about — get  shot  by  the  moonlight- 
ers, save  a  mountain  maid  from  drowning  in  a  trout  pool, 
or  fall  into  the  embrace  of  a  black  bear." 

"The  mountain  maid,  you  mean." 

"Did  I?     Well,  your  penetration  passes  bounds." 

' '  You  may  go,  if  you  will  write  the  letter.  There  must 
be  no  dime-novel  stories  in  it,  no  drawing  on  your  imagina- 
tion. It  shall  be  your  task  to  make  interesting  just  what 
you  see  and  do." 

"Please  add  the  twelve  labors  of  Hercules." 

"No  trifling.  I'm  in  earnest,  and  put  you  on  your  mettle 
in  regard  to  that  letter.  Unless  you  do  your  best,  your  friend- 
ship is  all  a  pretence.  And  remember  what  you  said  about 
its  being  a  letter  to  a  man.  If  you  begin  in  a  conventional 
way,  as  if  writing  to  a  lady,  I'll  burn  it  without  reading." 


222  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Agreed.      Good -by,  old    fellow  — beg    pardon,    Miss 

Ainsley . ' ' 

She  laughed  and  said,  "I  like  that;  good- by."  And 
she  gave  him  a  warm,  soft  hand,  in  a  rather  lingering  clasp. 

When  he  was  gone  she  murmured  softly,  "Yes,  he  has 
a  chance. ' ' 


ELLA'S    CRUMB    OF   COMFORT  223 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ELLA'S   CRUMB    OF   COMFORT 

LLA  walked  up  Meeting  Street  in  a  frame  of  mind 
differing  widely  from  the  complacent  mood  in  which 
she  sought  Mrs.  WiUoughbj's  residence.  The  unex- 
pected had  again  happened,  and  to  her  it  seemed  so  strange, 
so  very  remarkable,  that  she  should  have  met  Mr.  Hough- 
ton once  more  without  the  slightest  intention,  or  even  ex- 
pectation, on  her  part,  that  she  was  perplexed  and  troubled. 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

In  matters  purely  personal,  and  related  closely  to  our 
own  interests,  we  are  prone  to  give  almost  a  superstitious 
significance  to  events  which  come  about  naturally  enough. 
It  was  not  at  all  strange  that  Houghton  should  have  been 
strongly  and  agreeably  impressed  by  Ella  from  the  first; 
and  that  he  should  happen  to  call  at  the  same  hour  that  she 
did,  would  have  been  regarded  by  her  as  a  very  ordinary 
coincidence,  had  not  the  case  been  her  own.  Since  it  was 
her  own,  she  was  almost  awed  by  the  portentous  interview 
from  which  she  had  just  escaped.  The  inexperienced  girl 
found  her  cherished  ideas  in  respect  to  young  Houghton 
completely  at  fault.  She  had  sighed  that  she  could  not 
meet  him  without  restraint  or  embarrassment,  for,  as  she 
had  assured  herself,  "It  would  be  such  fun."  She  had 
supposed  that  she  could  laugh  at  him  and  with  him  indefi- 
nitely— that  he  would  be  a  source  of  infinite  jest  and  amuse- 
ment. He  had  banished  all  these  illusions  in  a  few  brief 
moments.  How  could  she  make  sport  of  a  man  who  had 
coupled  her  name  with  that  of  his  dead  mother  ?  His  every 
glance,  word,  and  tone  expressed  sincere  respect  and  admi- 


224  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

ration,  and,  she  had  to  admit  to  herself,  something  more. 
She  was  so  sincere  herself,  so  unsullied,  so  lacking  in  the 
callousness  often  resulting  from  much  contact  with  the  world, 
that  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  a  profanation  hence- 
forth to  regard  him  as  the  butt  of  even  the  innocent  ridicule 
of  which  she  was  capable.  Yet  in  all  her  perplexity  and 
trouble  there  was  a  confused  exhilaration  and  a  glad  sense 
of  power. 

"To  think  that  I,  little  Ella  Bodine,  a  baker  by  trade," 
she  thought,  "should  have  inspired  that  big  fellow  to  talk 
as  he  did!  He  is  apology  embodied,  and  seems  far  more 
afraid  of  me  than  he  was  of  that  great  bully  on  the  street." 
And  she  bent  her  head  to  conceal  a  laugh  of  exultation. 

Then  she  remembered  her  father,  and  her  face  grew 
troubled.  "I  shall  have  to  tell  him,"  she  murmured,  "and 
then  the  old  scene  will  be  enacted  over  again.  A  plague 
on  that  old  shadow  of  the  war!  If  I  were  a  man  I'd  fight 
it  out  and  then  shake  hands." 

Soon  after  reaching  home  she  heard  her  father's  crutches 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  ran  down  to  meet  him.  In  accordance 
with  her  custom,  she  took  away  one  crutch,  and  supported 
him  to  a  chair  in  the  parlor.  He  kissed  her  fondly,  and 
remarked,  "You  look  a  little  pale,  Ella." 

"I  feel  pale,  papa.  I've  something  to  tell  you,  and  you 
must  listen  patiently  and  sensibly.  I've  met  Mr.  Houghton 
again." 

The  veteran's  face  darkened  instantly,  but  he  waited  till 

she  explained  further. 

"Now  see  how  you  begin  to  look,"  she  resumed.  "You 
are  judging  me  already.  You  can't  be  even  fair  to  your 
own  child." 

"It  would  rather  seem  that  you  are  judging  me,  Ella." 
"Oh,  bother  it  all!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  wish  I  could  be 
simple  and  natural  in  this  affair,  for  I  was  so  embarrassed 
and  constrained  that  I  fear  I  acted  like  a  fool.  Well,  I'll 
tell  you  how  it  happened.  After  lunch  I  asked  Cousin 
Sophy  if  it  was  not  time  for  me  to  make  my  party  call  on 


ELLA'S    CRUMB    OF   COMFORT  225 

Mrs.  Willoughby,  and  she  said  it  was.  I  found  that  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  expecting  callers.  We  chatted  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  others  came,  Mr.  Houghton  among  them.  I 
no  more  expected  to  meet  him  than  I  expected  to  meet  you 
there.  After  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Willoughby  he  came 
to  me  in  the  back  parlor  instantly,  and  drew  up  a  chair  so 
that  I  could  not  escape  unless  I  jumped  over  him.  He 
began  with  such  funny  speeches  that  1  got  laughing,  as 
much  from  nervousness  as  anything  else,  for  I'd  been 
so  warned  against  him  that  I  couldn't  be  myself." 

"You  shall  not  go  to  Mrs.  Willoughby' s  again,"  said 
her  father,  decidedly. 

"Now  please  listen  till  I'm  all  through.  He  soon  saw 
that  I  did  not  want  to  laugh,  and  stopped  his  nonsense. 
He  wanted  to  become  acquainted,  friendly,  you  know;  and 
finally  I  had  to  tell  him  that  it  couldn't  be — that  I  must  be 
governed  by  your  wishes." 

"Ah,  that  was  my  dear,  good,  sensible  girll" 

"No,  papa,  I  don't  feel  sensible  at  all.  On  the  contrary, 
I  have  a  mean,  absurd  feeling — just  as  if  I  had  gone  to  Mrs. 
Willoughby' s  and  slapped  a  child  because  it  was  a  Northern 
child." 

He  laughed  at  this  remark,  for  she  unconsciously  gave 
the  impression  that  she  had  been  more  repellant  than  had 
actually  been  true.  He  soon  checked  himself,  however,  and 
said  gravely,  "Ella,  you  take  these  things  too  seriously." 

"No,  papa,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  you  and  Cousin  and 
Mara  who  take  these  things  too  seriously.  What  harm  has 
that  young  fellow  ever  done  any  of  us  ?' ' 

"He  could  do  me  an  immense  deal  of  harm  if  you  gave 
him  your  thoughts,  and  became  even  friendly.  I  should  be 
exceedingly  unhappy. ' ' 

"Oh,  well!  that  isn't  possible — I  mean,  that  we  should 
become  friendly.  I  certainly  won't  permit  him  to  speak  to 
me  in  the  streets,  although  I  spoke  to  him  once  in  the  street. 
Oh,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  everything  now!"  and  she  related 
the  circumstances  of  her  first  meeting  with  Houghton. 


226  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"All  this  is  very  painful  to  me,"  her  father  said,  with 
clouded  brow.  "But,  as  you  say,  it  has  come  about  with- 
out intention  on  your  part.  1  am  glad  you  have  told  me 
everything,  for  now  I  can  better  guard  you  from  future  mis- 
chances. My  relations  to  this  young  man's  father  are  such 
that  it  would  make  it  very  disagreeable,  indeed,  positively 
unendurable,  if  his  son  should  seek  your  society.  You 
should  also  remember  that  Mr.  Houghton  would  be  as  bit- 
terly hostile  to  any  such  course  on  his  son's  part  as  I  am. 
Your  pride,  apart  from  my  wishes,  should  lead  you  to  repel 
the  slightest  advance." 

"I  reckon  your  wishes  will  have  the  most  influence, 
papa.  I  have  too  strong  a  sense  of  justice  to  punish  the 
son  on  account  of  his  father. 

"You  cannot  separate  them,  Ella.  Think  of  our  own 
relation.     What  touches  one  touches  the  other." 

"Well,  papa,  it's  all  over,  and  I've  told  you  everything. 
Since  I'm  not  to  go  to  Mrs.  Willoughby's  any  more,  there 
is  little  probability  that  I  shall  meet  him  again,  except  in 
the  street.  If  he  bows  to  me,  I  shall  return  the  courtesy 
with  quiet  dignity,  for  he  has  acted  like  a  gentleman  toward 
me,  and,  for  the  sake  of  my  own  self-respect,  I  must  act  like 
a  lady  toward  him.  If  he  seeks  to  talk  to  me,  I  shall  tell 
him  it  is  forbidden,  and  that  will  end  it,  for  he  is  too  honor- 
able to  attempt  anything  clandestine." 

"I'm  not  sure  of  that." 

"I  am,  papa.  He  wouldn't  be  such  an  idiot,  for  he  un- 
derstands me  well  enough  to  know  what  would  be  the  result 
of  that  kind  of  thing.     But  he  isn't  that  kind  of  a  man." 

"How  should  yon  know  what  kind  of  a  man  he  is  ?" 

"Oh,  Heaven  has  provided  us  poor  women  with  intui- 
tions!" 

' '  True,  to  a  certain  extent,  but  the  rule  is  proved  by  an 
awful  lot  of  exceptions. ' ' 

"Perhaps  if  they  were  studied  out,  inclinations  rather 
than  intuitions  were  followed. ' ' 

""Well,  my  dear,  we  won't  discuss  these  vague  questions. 


ELLA'S    CRUMB    OF    COMFORT  227 

Your  duty  is  as  simple  and  clear  as  mine  is.  Do  as  yoa 
have  promised,  and  all  will  be  well.  I  must  now  dress  for 
dinner."  And  kissing  her  afiectionately,  he  went  up  to  his 
room. 

She  took  his  seat,  and  looked  vacantly  out  of  the  win- 
dow, with  a  vague  dissatisfaction  at  heart.  Unrecognized 
fully  as  yet,  the  great  law  of  nature,  which  brings  to  each  a 
distinct  and  separate  existence,  was  beginning  to  operate. 
As  she  had  said  to  Mara,  vital  interests  were  looming  up, 
new  experiences  coming,  of  which  she  could  no  more  think 
his  thoughts  than  he  hers. 

Her  face  was  a  little  clouded  when  she  sat  down  to  din- 
ner, and  she  observed  Mrs.  Bodine  looking  at  her  keenly. 
Instinctively  she  sought  to  conceal  her  deeper  feelings,  and 
to  become  her  mirthful  self. 

"You  have  not  told  me  about  your  call  yet,"  the  old 
lady  remarked. 

"Well,  I  felt  that  papa  should  have  the  first  recital.  I 
met  again  the  son  of  that  old — ahem! — Mr.  Houghton,  and 
I  have  begun  to  ostracize  him." 

''Ella,"  said  her  father,  almost  sternly,  "do  not  speak 
in  that  way.  Our  feelings  are  strong,  sincere,  and  well- 
grounded." 

"There,  papa,  I  did  not  mean  to  reflect  lightly  upon 
them.  Indeed,  I  was  not  thinking  of  them,  but  of  Mr. 
Houghton." 

"Oh,  Cousin  Hugh!  let  the  child  talk  in  her  own  natural 
way.  She  wouldn't  scratch  one  of  your  crutches  with  a  pin, 
much  less  hurt  you." 

"Forgive  me,  Ella,"  he  said,  "I  misunderstood  j'ou. " 

"Yes,  in  the  main,  papa,  but  to  be  frank,  I  don't  enjoy 
this  ostracizing  business,  and  I  hope  I  won't  have  any  more 
of  it  to  do." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should.  Cousin  Sophy, 
there  should  be  people  enough  in  Charleston  for  Ella  to 
visit  without  the  chance  of  meeting  Mr.  Houghton,  or  any 
of  his  ilk." 


228  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"So  there  are.  I'll  manage  that.  Well,  Ella,  bow  did 
you  set  about  ostracizing  young  Houghton  ?' '  And  the  old 
lady  began  to  laugh. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,"  said  Ella,  shaking  her  head 
ruefully.  "He  was  frank  and  polite  and  respectful  as  any 
young  gentleman  would  be  under  similar  circumstances,  and 
he  wanted  to  become  better  acquainted,  call  on  me,  I  sup- 
pose,  and  all  that,  but  I  had  to  tell  him  virtually  that  he 
was  an  objectionable  person." 

"I  would  rather  this  subject  should  not  be  discussed  any 
further,"  said  her  father  gravely. 

"So  would  I,"  Ella  added.  "Papa  and  I  have  settled 
the  matter,  and  Mr.  Houghton  is  to  recede  below  the 
horizon. ' ' 

The  old  lady  thought  that  when  Ella  was  alone  with  her 
she  would  get  all  the  details  of  the  interview,  but  she  was 
mistaken.  The  girl  not  only  grew  more  and  more  averse  to 
speaking  of  Houghton,  but  she  also  felt  that  what  he  had 
said  so  frankly  and  sincerely  to  her  was  not  a  proper  theme 
for  gossip,  even  with  kindly  old  Mrs.  Bodine,  and  that  a 
certain  degree  of  loyalty  was  due  to  him,  as  well  as  to  her 
father  and  cousin. 

The  captain  had  some  writing  on  hand  that  night,  and 
Ella  read  aloud  to  her  cousin  till  it  was  time  to  retire.  Ap- 
parently the  evening  passed  uneventfully  away;  yet  few  rec- 
ognize the  eventful  hours  of  their  lives.  A  subtle  and  mys- 
terious change  was  taking  place  in  the  girl's  nature  which  in 
time  she  would  recognize.  More  than  once  she  murmured, 
"How  can  I  be  hostile  to  him?  He  said  he  could  no  more 
do  me  wrong,  even  in  his  thoughts,  than  think  evil  of  his 
dead  mother.  He  said  he  would  be  better  if  I  were  his 
friend,  and  he  is  as  good-hearted  this  minute  as  I  am.  Yet 
1  must  treat  him  as  if  he  were  not  fit  to  be  spoken  to.  Well, 
I  reckon  it  will  hurt  me  as  much  as  it  does  him.  There's 
some  comfort  in  that. ' ' 


EECOGNIZED   AS   LOVER  229 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

RECOGNIZED      AS      LOVER 

IT  was  inevitable  that  Mara  should  pay  the  penalty  of 
being  at  variance  with  nature  and  her  own  heart.  The 
impulses  of  youth  had  been  checked  and  restrained. 
Instead  of  looking  forward,  like  Ella,  she  was  turning  ever 
backward,  and  drawing  her  inspiration  from  the  past,  and 
a  dead,  hopeless  past,  at  that.  It  fell  upon  her  like  a 
shadow.  All  its  incentive  tended  toward  negation,  prompt- . 
ing  her  to  frown  on  changes,  progress,  and  the  hopefulness 
springing  up  in  many  hearts.  The  old  can  hug  their  gloom 
in  a  sort  of  complacent  misanthropy ;  the  young  cannot.  If 
they  are  unhappy  they  chafe,  and  feel  in  their  deepest  con- 
sciousness that  something  is  wrong.  Mara  laid  the  blame 
chiefly  upon  Clancy,  believing  that,  if  he  had  taken  the 
course  adopted  by  Captain  Bodine,  she  could  have  been 
happy  with  him  in  an  attic.  His  words,  at  their  interview, 
were  "not  the  only  causes  of  her  intense  indignation  and  pas- 
sion. Although  she  was  incensed  to  the  last  degree,  that 
he  should  charge  Captain  Bodine  with  such  ''preposterous" 
motives  and  intentions,  she  was  also  aware  that  her  fierce 
struggles  with  her  own  heart,  at  the  time,  distracted  and 
confused  her.  She  could  not  maintain  the  icy  demeanor 
she  had  resolved  upon. 

Left  to  herself,  the  long  afternoon  and  evening  of  the 
follov.lng  day,  she  had  time  for  many  second  thoughts. 
She  was  compelled  to  face  in  solitude  the  hard  problems  of 
her  life.  Anger  died  out,  and  its  support  was  lost.  She 
had  driven  away  the  only  man  she  loved,  or  could  ever 
love,   and  she  had  used  language  which   he  could  never 


280  THE  EARTH   TREMBLED 

forget,  or  be  expected  to  forgive.  The  more  she  thought 
of  his  motive  in  seeking  the  interview,  the  more  perplexed 
and  troubled  she  became.  As  now  in  calmer  mood  she  re- 
called his  words  and  manner,  she  could  not  delude  herself 
with  the  belief  that  he  came  only  in  his  own  behalf,  or  that 
he  was  prompted  by  jealousy.  She  remembered  the  grim 
frankness  with  which  he  said  virtually  that  he  had  nothing 
to  hope  from  her,  not  even  tolerance.  She  almost  writhed 
under  the  fact  that  he  had  again  compelled  her  to  believe 
that,  however  mistaken,  he  was  sincere  and  straightforward, 
that  he  truly  thought  that  Bodine  was  lover  rather  than 
friend. 

She  would  not,  could  not,  imagine  that  this  was  true, 
and  yet  she  groaned  aloud,  "He  has  destroyed  my  chief 
solace.  1  was  almost  happy  with  my  father's  friend,  and 
was  coming  to  think  of  him  almost  as  a  second  father. 
Now,  when  with  him  I  shall  have  a  miserable  self-con- 
sciousness, and  a  disposition  to  interpret  his  words  and 
manner  in  a  way  that  will  do  him  hateful  wrong.  Oh, 
what  is  there  for  me  to  look  forward  to?  What  is  the  use 
of  living?" 

These  final  words  indicated  one  of  Mara's  chief  needs. 
She  craved  some  motive,  some  powerful  incentive,  which 
could  both  sustain  and  inspire.  Mere  existence,  with  its 
ordinary  pleasures  and  interests,  did  not  satisfy  her  at  all. 
Clancy's  former  question  in  regard  to  her  devotion  to  the 
past  and  the  dead,  "What  good  will  it  do?"  haunted  her 
like  a  spectre.  He  had  again  made  the  dreary  truth  more 
clear,  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  future  to  which  she 
could  give  the  strong  allegiance  of  her  soul.  She  would 
work  for  nothing,  suffer  for  nothing,  hope  for  nothing,  ex- 
cept her  daily  bread.  As  she  said,  the  friendship  of  Bodine 
was  but  a  solace,  great  indeed,  but  inadequate  to  the  deep 
requirements  of  a  nature  like  hers.  She  knew  she  was 
leading  a  dual  life— cold,  reserved,  sternly  self- restrained 
outwardly,  yet  longing  with  passionate  desire  for  the  love 
she  had  rejected,  and,  since  that  was  impossible,  for  some- 


RECOGNIZED    AS    LOVER  231 

thing  else,  to  which  she  could  consecrate  her  life,  with  the 
feeling  that  it  was  worth  the  sacrifice.  If  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  she  might  have 
been  led  to  the  austere  life  of  a  nun.  But,  in  her  morbid 
condition,  she  was  incapable  of  understanding  the  whole- 
some faith,  the  large,  sweet  liberty  of  those  who  remain 
closely  allied  to  humanity  in  the  world,  yet  purifying  and 
saving  it,  by  the  sympathetic  tenderness  of  Him  who  had 
'* compassion  on  the  multitude."  She  had  still  much  to 
learn  in  the  hard  school  of  experience. 

The  next  day,  Ella  was  nothing  like  so  voluble  as  usual. 
Little  frowns  and  moments  of  deep  abstraction  took  the  place 
of  the  mirthful  smiles  of  the  day  before.  Nevertheless,  her 
strong  love  for  Mara  led  her  to  speak  quite  freely  of  her  ex- 
perience during  her  call  at  Mrs.  Willoughby's.  As  Mara's 
closest  friend,  she  felt  that  reticence  was  a  kind  of  disloy- 
alty. It  was  also  true  that  out  of  the  abundance  of  her 
heart  she  was  prone  to  speak.  At  the  same  time,  the  belief 
grew  stronger  hourly  that  she  had  a  secret  which  she  had 
not  revealed,  and  could  not  reveal  to  any  one.  The  more 
she  thought  over  Houghton's  words  and  manner,  the  mors 
sure  she  became  that  his  interest  in  her  was  not  merely  a 
passing  fancy.  Maidenly  reserve,  however,  forbade  even  a 
hint  of  what  might  seem  to  others  a  conceited  and  indelicate 
surmise.  She  therefore  gave  only  the  humorous  side  of  her 
meeting  with  Houghton  again,  and  laughed  at  Mara's  vexa- 
tion. So  far  from  being  afraid  of  her  friend,  she  rather  en- 
joyed shocking  her.  At  last  she  said,  "There,  Mara,  don't 
take  it  so  to  heart.  Papa  says  I  must  ostracize  him,  and  so 
Goth  and  Vandal  he  becomes — the  absurd  idea!" 

"Your  father  would  not  require  you  to  do  anything 
absurd." 

"No,  not  what  was  absurd  to  him;  but  he  does  not 
know  Mr.  Houghton  any  more  than  you  do.  It's  not  only 
absurd,  but  it's  wrong,  from  my  point  of  view." 

"Oh,  Ella,  I'm  sorry  you  feel  so  different  from  the  rest 
of  us." 


282  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Why  do  you  feel  different  from  so  many  others,  Mara? 
It  isn't  to  please  this  or  that  one,  or  because  you  have  been 
told  to  think  or  to  feel  thus  and  so.  You  have  your  views 
and  convictions  because  you  are  Mara  Wallingford,  and  not 
some  one  else.  Am  I  made  of  putty  any  more  than  you  are, 
sweetheart  ?' ' 

Her  words  were  like  a  stab  to  Mara,  for  the  thought 
flashed  into  her  mind,  "I  have  required  that  Clancy  should 
be  putty  under  my  will."  Ella,  in  her  simple  common- 
sense,  often  made  remarks  which  disturbed  Mara's  cher- 
ished belief  that  she  was  right  and  Clancy  all  wrong. 

As  a  very  secondary  matter  of  interest  to  her,  Ella  at 
last  began  to  speak  of  Clancy  and  Miss  Ainsley.  "If  ever 
a  girl  courted  a  man  with  her  eyes  that  feminine  riddle 
courts  Mr.  Clancy.  I  don't  think  I  ever  could  be  so  far 
gone  as  to  look  at  a  man  as  she  does  at  him,  unless  I  was 
engaged." 

"How  does  he  look  at  her?"  Mara  asked  with  simu- 
lated indifference. 

"Oh,  there's  some  freemasonry  between  them,  probably 
an  engagement  or  an  understanding!  She  expostulated 
against  his  going  away  as  if  she  had  the  right.  I  don't 
think  he  cares  for  her  as  I  would  wish  a  man  to  care  for 
me,  for  there  was  a  humorous,  half- reckless  gleam  in  his 
eyes.  It  may  be  all  natural  enough  though,"  she  added 
musingly.  "I  don't  believe  Miss  Ainsley  could  inspire  an 
earnest,  reverent  love.  A  man  wouldn't  associate  her  in 
his  thoughts  with  his  dead  mother." 

"What  a  strange  expression!  What  put  it  into  your 
mind?" 

"Oh,"  replied  Ella  hastily,  and  flushing  a  little,  "I've 
been  told  that  Mr.  Clancy's  parents  are  dead!  A  plague 
on  them  both,  and  all  people  that  I  can't  understand — I 
don't  mean  the  dead  Clancys,  but  these  two  who  are  fool- 
ing like  enough.  You  should  be  able  to  interpret  Clancy 
better  than  I,  for  Cousin  Sophy  says  you  were  once  very 
good  friends." 


BECOQNIZED    AS   LOVER  233 

"I  cannot  remain  the  friend  of  any  one  who  is  utterly 
out  of  sympathy  with  all  that  I  believe  is  right  and  dig- 
nified." 

"Well,  Mara,  forgive  me  for  saying  it,  but  Mr.  Clancy 
may  have  had  convictions  also." 

''Undoubtedly,"  replied  Mara  coldly,  "but  there  can  be 
no  agreeable  companionship  between  clashing  minds." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Ella,  laughing;  "not  if  each 
insists  that  both  shall  think  exactly  alike.  It  would  be  like 
two  engines  meeting  on  the  same  track.  They  must  both 
back  out,  and  go  difierent  ways." 

"Well,  I've  back  out,"  Mara  remarked  almost  sternly. 

"That's  like  you,  Mara  dear.  Well,  well,  I  hope  the 
war  will  be  over  some  day.  By  the  way,  papa  told  me  to 
tell  you  that  he  was  busy  last  evening,  but  that  he  would 
call  this  afternoon  for  a  breathing  with  you  on  the  Battery." 

At  the  usual  hour  the  veteran  appeared.  Mara's  greet- 
ing was  outwardly  the  same;  nevertheless,  Clancy's  words 
haunted  her,  and  her  old  serene  unconsciousness  was  gone. 
Now  that  her  faculties  were  on  the  alert,  she  soon  began  to 
recognize  subtle,  unpremeditated  indications  of  the  light  in 
which  Bodine  had  begun  to  regard  her,  and  a  sudden  fear 
and  repugnance  chilled  her  heart.  "Was  Clancy  right  after 
all  ?"  she  began  to  ask  herself  in  a  sort  of  dread  and  presen- 
timent of  trouble.  Instinctively,  and  almost  involuntarily, 
she  grew  slightly  reserved  and  distant  in  manner,  ceasing  to 
meet  his  gaze  in  her  former  frank,  affectionate  way.  With 
quick  discernment  he  appreciated  the  change,  and  thought, 
"She  is  not  ready  yet,  and,  indeed,  may  never  be  ready." 
His  manner,  too,  began  to  change,  as  a  cloud  gradually 
loses  something  of  its  warmth  of  color.  Mara  was  grateful, 
and  in  her  thoughts  paid  homage  to  his  tact  and  delicacy. 

"Mara,"  he  said,  "has  Ella  told  you  of  her  experiences 
at  Mrs.  Willoughby's?" 

''Yes,  quite  fully.  I  should  think,  however,  from  her 
words  that  you  were  more  truly  her  confidant. ' ' 

"Yes,  she  has  acted  very  honorably,  just  as  I  should 


234  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

expect  she  would,  and  yet  I  am  anxious  about  her.  I  wish 
she  sympathized  with  us  more  fully  in  our  desire  to  live 
apart  from  those  who  are  inseparable  in  our  thoughts  from 
the  memory  of  'all  our  woes,'  as  Milton  writes." 

"I  have  often  expressed  just  this  regret  to  Ella;  but  she 
loves  us  all,  and  especially  you,  so  dearly  that  I  have  no 
anxiety  about  her  action." 

"No,  Mara,  not  her  action;  I  can  control  that:  but  I 
should  be  sorry  indeed  if  she  became  interested  in  this 
young  man.  There  is  often  a  perversity  about  the  heart 
not  wholly  amenable  to  reason." 

Poor  Mara  thought  she  knew  the  truth  of  this  remark  if 
any  one  did,  nor  could  she  help  fancying  that  her  compan- 
ion had  himself  in  mind  when  he  spoke. 

"Young  Houghton,"  he  resumed,  "is  beginning  to  make 
some  rather  shy,  awkward  advances,  as  if  to  secure  my  favor 
— a  very  futile  endeavor  as  you  can  imagine.  My  views  are 
changing  in  respect  to  remaining  in  his  father's  employ. 
The  grasping  old  man  would  monopolize  everything.  I 
believe  he  would  impoverish  the  entire  South  if  he  could, 
and  1  don't  feel  like  remaining  a  part  of  his  infernal  busi- 
ness-machine." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  feel  so!"  exclaimed  Mara  warmly. 
"I  don't  like  to  think  of  your  being  there  at  all." 

"That  settles  it  then,"  said  Bodine  quietly.  "It  would 
not  be  wise  or  honorable  for  me  to  act  hastily.  I  must  give 
Mr.  Houghton  proper  notification,  but  I  shall  at  once  begin 
to  seek  other  employment." 

Mara  was  embarrassed  and  pained  by  such  large  defer- 
ence to  her  views,  and  her  spirits  grew  more  and  more  de- 
pressed with  the  conviction  that  Clancy  was  right.  But 
she  had  been  given  time  to  think,  and  soon  believed  that 
her  best,  her  only  course,  was  to  ignore  that  phase  of  the 
captain's  regard,  and  to  teach  him,  with  a  delicacy  equal  to 
his  own,  that  it  could  never  be  accepted. 

"Moreover,"  resumed  Bodine,  "apart  from  my  duty  to 
Mr.  Houghton — and  I  must  be  more  scrupulous  toward  him 


RECOGNIZED    AS    LOVER  235 

than  if  he  were  my  best  friend— I  owe  it  to  Ella  and  my 
cousin  not  to  give  up  the  means  of  support,  if  1  can  honor- 
ably help  it,  until  I  secure  something  else.  Houghton  has 
held  to  our  agreement  both  in  spirit  and  letter,  and  I  cannot 
complain  of  him  as  far  as  1  am  concerned.'* 

"1  have  confidence  in  your  judgment,  Captain,  and  I 
know  you  will  always  be  guided  by  the  most  delicate  sense 
of  honor." 

"I  hope  so,  Mara;  I  shall  try  to  be,  but  with  the  best 
endeavor  we  often  make  mistakes.  To  tell  the  truth  1  am 
more  anxious  about  Ella  than  myself.  This  young  Hough- 
ton is,  I  fear,  a  rather  hair-brained  fellow.  I've  no  doubt 
that  he  is  sincere  and  well-meaning  enough  as  rich  and  in- 
dulged young  men  of  his  class  go,  but  he  appears  to  me  to 
be  impetuous,  and  inclined  to  be  reckless  in  carrying  out 
his  own  wishes.  Ella,  in  her  inexperience,  has  formed  far 
too  good  an  opinion  of  him." 

"Well,  Captain,  I  wouldn't  worry  about  it.  Ella  is 
honest  as  the  sunshine.  They  have  scarcely  more  than 
met,  and  she  will  be  guided  by  you.  This  episode  will 
soon  be  forgotten." 

"Yes,  1  hope  so;  I  think  so.  1  shall  count  on  your  in- 
fluence, for  she  loves  you  dearly." 

"I  know,"  was  the  rather  sad  reply,  "but  Ella  does  not 
think  and  feel  as  I  do.  I  wish  she  could  become  interested 
in  some  genuine  Southern  man." 

"That  will  come  in  time,  all  too  soon  for  me,  I  fear,"  he 
said,  with  a  sigh,  "but  I  must  accept  the  fact  that  my  little 
bird  is  fledged,  and  may  soon  take  flight.  It  will  be  a  lonely 
life  when  she  is  gone." 

"She  may  not  go  far,"  Mara  answered  gently,  "and  she 
may  enrich  you  with  a  son,  instead  of  depriving  you  of 
a  daughter." 

He  shook  his  head  despondently,  and  soon  afterward 
accompanied  her  to  her  home.  She  knew  there  was  some- 
thmg  like  an  appeal  to  her  in  his  eyes  as  he  pressed  her 
hand  warmly  in  parting.     By  simply  disturbing  the  blind 


236  THE   EARTH    TREMBLEB 


• 


confidence  in  which  she  had  accepted  and  loved  her  father's 
friend,  Clancy  had  given  her  sight.  She  saw  the  veteran 
in  a  new  character,  and  she  was  distressed  and  perplexed 
beyond  measure.  Scarcely  able,  yet  compelled  to  believe 
the  truth,  she  asked  herself  all  the  long  night,  ''How  can 
I  bear  this  new  trouble  ?' ' 


HEAVEN   SPEED    YOU    THEN'*  237 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


'HEAVEN    SPEED   YOU   THEN" 


A  UN'  SHEBA  and  Vilet  entered  at  the  usual  hour  the 
following  day.  The  girls  smiled  and  nodded  in  an 
absent  sort  of  way,  and  then  the  old  woman  thought 
they  seemed  to  forget  all  about  her.  She  also  observed 
that  they  were  not  so  forward  with  the  work  as  customary; 
and  she  watched  them  wonderingly  yet  shrewdly.  Sud- 
denly she  sprang  up,  exclaiming,  "Lor  bress  you,  Missy 
Ella,  dat  de  secon'  time  you  put  aw-spice  in  dat  ar  dough." 

Both  the  girls  started  nervously,  and  Ella  began  to  laugh. 

"Missy  Mara,  you  fergits  some  cake  in  de  oben  from  de 
way  it  smell,"  and  Ann'  Sheba  drew  out  cookies  as  black 
as  herself  instead  of  a  delicate  brown. 

Mara  looked  at  them  ruefully,  and  then  said,  "I  must 
make  some  more,  that's  all." 

' '  Wot's  de  matter  wid  you  bofe,  honeys  ?' '  the  old  woman 
asked  kindly. 

"Politics,"  Ella  blurted  out. 

"Polytics!  No  won'eryou'se  bofe  off  de  handle.  Dere's 
been  only  two  times  wen  1  couldn't  stan'  Unc.  nohow.  De 
fust  an'  wust  was  wen  he  get  polytics  on  de  brain,  an' 
belebed  dat  ole  giiv'ner  Moses  was  gwine  ter  lead  de  culud 
people  to  a  promis'  Ian'.  I  alus  tole  him  dat  his  Moses  'ud 
lead  him  into  a  ditch,  an'  so  he  did.  De  secon'  time  was 
wen  he  got  sot  on,  but  you  knows  all  'bout  dat.  You'se 
bofe  too  deep  fer  me.  How  you  git  into  polytics  I  doan 
see  nohow." 


238  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"There,  Aun'  Sheba,  don't  you  mind  Ella's  nonsense. 
We're  no  more  into  politics  than  you  are." 

"  You'se  inter  sump' in  den." 

"Yes,"  said  Ella,  "we're  still  carrying  on  the  war.'' 

"Please  don't  talk  so,  Ella." 

"Oh,  Mara!  I  must  have  my  nonsense.  You've  got  the 
*storied  past' — that's  how  it's  phrased,  isn't  it? — to  sustain 
you,  and  I've  only  my  nonsense." 

"Well,  puttin'  in  aw-spice  double  is  nonsense,  shuah 
nufi,"  said  Aun'  Sheba,  looking  at  the  girl  keenly.  "Wot 
you  want  spicin'  so  fer  alFt  once,  Missy  Ella  ?  You  peart, 
an'  saucy  as  eber.  I  ony  wish  I  could  see  Missy  Mara 
lookin'  like  you." 

"You  are  getting  old  and  blind,  Aun*  Sheba.  I  have 
a  secret  sorrow  gnawing  at  my  *inards,'  as  you  term  those 
organs  which  keep  people  awake  o'  nights,  gazing  at  the 
moon." 

"Yes,  honey,  Aun'  Sheba  gittin*  bery  ole  an'  bery  blin', 
but  she  see  dat  dere's  sump'in  out  ob  kilter  wid  de  inards 
ob  you  bofe.  Well,  well,  1  s'pose  it's -none  ob  de  ole 
woman's  business." 

"Aun'  Sheba,"  cried  Ella,  with  an  exaggerated  sigh, 
"if  you  could  mend  matters  I'd  come  to  you  quicker  than 
to  any  one  else,  you  dear  old  soul !  Well  now,  to  tell  you 
the  honest  truth,  there  isn't  very  much  the  matter  with  me, 
and  there's  a  certain  doctor  that's  going  to  cure  me  just  as 
sure  as  this  batter  (holding  up  a  spoonful)  is  going  to  be 
cake  in  ten  minutes." 

"Who  dat?" 

"Doctor  Time — oh,  get  out!"  At  this  instant  an  irate 
bumble-bee  darted  in,  and  Ella,  in  a  spasmodic  effort  of 
self-defence,  threw  the  spoon  at  it,  and  both  went  flying  out 
of  the  window.  The  girl  sat  down  half -crying,  half- laughing 
in  her  vexation,  while  Aun'  Sheba  shook  with  mirth  in  all 
her  ample  proportions. 

"Dat  ar  cake's  gwine  to  be  dough  for  eber  mo'.  Missy 
Ella, "  she  said.    "I'se  feerd  you'se  case  am  bery  serus.    Yit 


''HEAVEN   SPEED    YOU    THEN''  239 

I  worries  mo'  'bout  Missy  Mara.  Heah  now,  honey,  you 
jes  dun  beat  out.  You  sit  down  an'  Missy  Ella  an'  me' 11 
finish  up  in  a  jiify.  I  reckon  Missy  Ella  ony  got  a  leetle 
tantrum  dis  mawnin,  but  you'se  been  a  wuckin'  an'  tinkin' 
too  hard  dis  long  time." 

"Yes,  Aun'  Sheba,"  cried  Ella,  "that's  the  trouble. 
Let's  you  and  I  take  the  business  out  of  her  hands  for  a 
time,  and  make  her  a  silent  partner." 

"She  too  silent  now.  Bofe  ob  you  gittin'  ter  be  silent 
par'ners.  In  de  good  ole  times  I'd  heah  you  chatterin'  as 
I  come  up  de  stars,  an'  to-day  you  was  bofe  right  smart 
ways  off  from  dis  kitchen  in  you  mins.  Mum,  mum,  tinkin' 
deep,  bofe  ob  you.  Eysters  ud  make  a  racket  long  ob  you 
uns  dis  mawnin'." 

"There,  Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Mara,  kindly,  "don't  you 
worry  about  us.  This  is  July,  and  in  August  we'll  take 
a  rest.  You  deserve  and  need  it  as  much  as  either  of  us. 
I'll  get  well  and  strong  then,  and  you  know  it  makes  people 
worse  to  tell  them  they  don't  look  well  and  all  that." 

Aun'  Sheba  gave  a  sort  of  dissatisfied  grunt,  but  she 
helped  the  girls  through  with  their  tasks  in  her  own  deft 
way,  and  departed  with  Vilet,  who  was  always  very  quiet 
and  shy  except  when  at  home. 

"Well,"  said  Ella,  giving  herself  a  little  shake,  when 
they  were  alone,  "I'm  going  to  get  over  my  nonsense  at 
once." 

"What's  troubling  you,  Ella?" 

"Oh,  I  hardly  know  myself.  What's  troubling  you? 
We  both  seem  out  of  sorts.  Do  let  us  be  sensible  and  jolly. 
Now  if  we  both  had  a  raging  toothache  we'd  have  some 
excuse  for  melancholy.  Good-by,  dear.  Til  be  up  with  the 
lark  to-morrow,  and  we'll  make  a  lark  of  our  work;"  and 
she  started  homeward,  with  her  cherry  lips  sternly  com- 
pressed in  her  resolution  to  be  her  old  mirthful  self.  In 
the  energy  of  her  purpose  she  began  to  walk  faster  and 
faster.  "There  now,  Ella  Bodine,"  she  muttered,  "since 
it's  your  duty  to  ostracize  and  bake,  ostracize  and  bake,  and 


240  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

be  done  with  your  ridiculous  fancies."  And  she  swiftly 
turned  the  corner  of  a  street,  as  if,  under  the  inspiration  of 
a  great  purpose,  she  was  entering  upon  a  new  and  wiser 
course.  The  result  was,  she  nearly  ran  over  George  Hough- 
ton. Looking  up,  she  saw  him  standing,  hat  in  hand,  with 
a  broad,  glad  smile  on  his  face. 

"You  almost  equal  that  express- wagon,"  he  said.  "Are 
you  going  for  the  doctor  ?' ' 

Her  mouth  twitched  nervously,  but  she  managed  to  say, 
"Good-morning,  Mr.  Houghton,  I'm  in  haste,"  and  on  she 
went.  He  saw  her  head  go  down.  Was  she  laughing  or 
crying?  The  latter  possibility  brought  him  to  her  side 
instantly. 

"Are  you  in  trouble?"  he  asked  very  kindly.  "Isn't 
there  something — oh,  I  see  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  and 
his  tones  proved  that  his  feelings  were  deeply  hurt. 

Her  mirth  ceased  at  once.  "No,  Mr.  Houghton,"  she 
replied,  looking  up  at  him  with  frank  directness,  "I  was 
not  laughing  at  you,  but  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  what 
you  said.  I'm  in  no  trouble,  nor  shall  I  be  if — if — well,  you 
know  what  I  told  you.  We  must  be  strangers,  you  know," 
and  she  went  on  again  as  if  her  feet  were  winged. 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  kind,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  turned  on  his  heel  and  slowly  pursued  his  way  to  his 
father's  counting-rooms.  Entering  he  paused  an  instant  and 
looked  grimly  at  Bodine,  whose  head  was  bent  over  his 
writing.  "I'll  tackle  you  next,  old  gentleman,"  was  his 
thought. 

Punctually  to  a  minute  he  called  on  Mrs.  Willoughby 
when  the  week  had  expired.  She  looked  into  his  resolute 
face  and  surmised  before  he  spoke  that  time  and  reflection 
had  not  inclined  him  to  a  prudent  withdrawal  from  a  very 
doubtful  suit.  Nevertheless  she  said:  "Well,  you've  had  a 
little  time  to  think,  and  you  probably  see  now  that  your 
wisest  course  will  be  to  give  up  this  little  affair  utterly." 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs. Willoughby,  I've  had  an  age  in  which 
to  think,  and  it's  not  a  little  affair  to  me.     I  did  not  quite 


*' HEAVEN    SPEED    YOU    THEN''  241 

UDderstand  myself  when  1  last  saw  you — it  was  all  so  new, 
strange,  and  heavenly.  But  I  understand  myself  now.  Ella 
Bodine  shall  be  my  wife  unless  she  finally  rejects  me,  unless 
she  herself  makes  me  sure  that  it's  of  no  use  to  try.  What's 
more,  it  will  take  years  to  prove  this.  As  long  as  she  does 
not  belong  to  another  I'll  never  give  up." 

"She  belongs  to  her  father." 

"No,  not  in  this  sense.  She  has  the  right  of  every 
American  girl  to  choose  her  husband." 

"Do  you  mean  to  defy  her  father?" 

"No,  I  mean  to  go  to  him  like  a  gentleman,  and  ask  per- 
mission to  pay  my  addresses  to  his  daughter.  I  mean  to  do 
this  before  I  say  one  word  of  love  to  her." 

"Since  you  are  so  resolved  upon  your  course  you  do  not 
need  any  more  advice  from  me." 

"I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  Isn't  this  the  right,  honorable 
course?" 

"Oh,  your  royalty  wishes  me  to  applaud  your  decrees 
and  decisions,"  she  said  laughing. 

"Now  please  don't  be  hard  on  me,  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
I've  followed  your  advice  with  all  my  might  for  a  week." 

"Done  nothing  with  all  your  might?" 

"Yes,  and  you  couldn't  have  given  me  a  harder 
task." 

"Are  you  of  age?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  I'm  twenty-two,  however  immature  I  may 
seem  to  you." 

"Miss  Bodine  is  not  of  age." 

"Well,  I'll  wait  till  she  is." 

"Wouldn't  that  be  better?  Wait  till  she  is  of  age,  and 
more  capable  of  judging  and  acting  for  herself.  Time  may 
soften  her  father's  feelings,  and  your  father's  also,  for,  be- 
lieve me,  you  are  going  to  have  as  much  trouble  at  home  as 
with  Captain  Bodine,  that  is,  supposing  that  Ella  would  listen 
to  your  suit." 

"And  while  I'm  idly  biting  my  nails  through  the  creep- 
ing years  some  level-headed  Southerner  will  quietly  woo  and 

E— Roe— XV 


242  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

win  her.     I  would  deserve  to  lose  her,  should  I  take  such  a 
course." 

"You  certainly  would  have  to  take  that  risk;  but  per- 
haps you  will  incur  greater  risks  by  too  hasty  action." 

"Be  sincere  with  me  now,  Mrs.  Willoughby.  I  don't 
believe  you  women  like  timid,  pusillanimous  men.  How 
could  1  appear  otherwise  to  Miss  Bodine  if  1  should  with- 
draw, like  a  growling  bear  into  winter  quarters,  there  to 
hibernate  indefinitely?  The  period  wouldn't  be  life  to  me, 
scarcely  tolerable  existence.  What  could  she  know  about 
my  motives  and  feelings?  I  tell  you  my  love  is  as  sacred 
as  my  faith  in  God.  I'm  proud  of  it,  rather  than  ashamed. 
1  wish  her  to  know  it,  no  matter  what  the  result  may  be, 
and  I  don't  care  if  all  the  world  knows  it,  too." 

"You  mean  to  tell  your  father  then  ?" 

"Certainly,  at  the  proper  time." 

"Suppose  you  find  him  utterly  opposed  to  it  all  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall;  not  when  he  sees  my  happiness 
is  at  stake.  He  may  fume  over  it  for  a  time,  but  when  he 
comes  to  know  Ella  she'll  disarm  him.  Why,  it's  just  as 
clear  to  me  as  that  I  see  you,  that  she  could  make  the  old 
gentleman  happier  than  he  has  been  for  over  a  quarter  of  a 
century. ' ' 

"My  poor  young  friend!  I  wish  I  could  share  in  your 
sanguine  feelings." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  so  very  sanguine  about  her.  What  she 
will  do  worries  me  far  more  than  what  the  old  people 
will  do." 

"Well,  you  are  right  there.  The  old  people  are  the  out- 
works, she  the  citadel,  which  you  can  never  capture  unless 
she  chooses  to  surrender. " 

"That's  true,  but  I  don't  believe  she  ever  would  sur- 
render to  a  man  who  was  afraid  to  approach  even  the 
outworks." 

Mrs.  Willoughby  laughed  softly  as  she  admitted,  "Per- 
haps you  are  right." 

"If  I'm  not,  my  whole  manhood  is  at  fault,"  he  replied 


*' HEAVEN   SPEED    YOU    THEN'*  243 

earnestly.  ^'Please  tell  me,  haven't  I  decided  on  the  right, 
honorable  course — on  what  would  seem  honorable  to  Cap- 
tain Bodine  and  to  Ella  also  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  tuill  act  now  you  can  take  no  other." 
"Well,  won't  you  please  approve  of  it?" 
"Mr.  Houghton,  I'm  not  going  to  be  timid  and  pusillani- 
mous either.  Since  you  are  of  age,  and  will  take  a  perfectly 
honorable  course,  I  will  stand  bj  you  as  a  friend.  I  will 
still  counsel  you,  if  you  so  wish,  for  I  fear  that  your 
troubles  have  only  begun." 

"I  thank  you  from  my  heart,"  he  said,  seizing  her  hand 
and  pressing  it  warmly.  "I  do  need  and  wish  your  coun- 
sel, for  I  have  very  little  tact.  I  can  sail  a  boat  better  than 
I  can  manage  an  aSair  like  this." 

"Will  you  make  me  one  solemn  promise?" 
"Yes,  if  lean." 

"Then  pledge  me  your  word  that  you  will  not  lose  your 
temper  with  either  Captain  Bodine  or  your  father." 

"Oh,  I  think  I  can  easily  do  that,"  he  said  good- 
hum  oredly. 

"You  don't  know,  you  can't  imagine,  how  you  may  be 
tried." 

"Well,  it's  a  sensible  thing  you  ask,  and  I've  sense 
enough  to  know  it.  I  pledge  you  my  word.  If  I  break 
it,  it  will  be  because  I'm  pushed  beyond  mortal  endurance." 
"Mr.  Houghton,"  she  said,  almost  sternly,  "you  must 
not  break  it,  no  matter  what  is  said  or  what  happens.  You 
would  jeopardize  everything  if  you  did.  You  might  lose 
Ella's  respect." 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
going  into  a  very  doubtful  battle,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"It  is  a  very  doubtful  battle.  It  certainly  will  be  a 
hard,  and  probably  a  long  one,  and  you  will  lose  it  if  you 
don't  keep  cool." 

"I  can  be  very  firm,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  as  firm  and  decided  as  you  please,  as  long  as  you 
are  quiet  and  gentlemanly  in  your  words.     Let  me  say  one 


244  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

thing  more,"  she  added,  very  gravely.  "If  you  enter  on 
this  affair,  and  then,  in  any  kind  of  weakness  or  fickleness, 
give  it  up,  I  shall  despise  you,  and  so  will  all  in  this  city 
who  know  about  it.  Count  the  cost.  I'm  too  true  a  South- 
erner to  look  at  you  again  if  you  trifle  with  a  Southern  girl. 
Your  father  will  offer  you  great  inducements  to  abandon  this 
folly,  as  he  will  term  it. ' ' 

He  flushed  deeply,  but  only  said,  in  quiet  emphasis,  "If 
I  ever  give  up,  except  for  reasons  satisfactory  to  you,  I  shall 
despise  myself  far  more  than  you  can  despise  me. ' ' 

"And  you  give  me  your  word  that  you  will  keep  your 
temper  to  the  very  end  ?" 

"Yes,  Heaven  helping  me,  I  will." 

"Heaven  speed  you  then,  my  friend." 


CONSTERNATION^  245 


CHAPTEE  XXIX 

CONSTERNATION 

YOUNG  Houghton  was  like  a  liigli- mettled  steed,  from 
which  the  curb  had  been  removed.  His  tempera- 
ment, even  more  than  the  impatience  of  youth,  led 
him  to  chafe  at  delay,  and  Ella  appeared  so  lonely,  so  ex- 
actly to  his  mind,  that  he  had  a  nervous  dread  lest  others 
should  equally  appreciate  her,  and  forestall  his  effort  to 
secure  her  affection.  He  resolved,  therefore,  that  not  an 
hour  should  be  lost,  and  so  went  directly  back  to  his 
father's  counting-rooms. 

Bodine  was  writing  as  usual  at  his  desk,  and  Houghton 
looked  at  him  with  an  apprehension  thus  far  unknown  in 
his  experience.  But  he  did  not  hesitate.  "Captain  Bo- 
dine," he  said,  with  a  little  nervous  tremor  in  his  voice, 
**will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  grant  me  a  private  interview 
this  evening?" 

The  veteran  looked  at  him  coldly  as  he  asked,  "May  I 
inquire,  sir,  your  object  in  seeking  this  interview?" 

"I  will  explain  fully  when  we  are  alone.  I  cannot  here, 
but  will  merely  say  that  my  motives  are  honorable,  as  you 
yourself  will  admit." 

Bodine  contracted  his  brows  in  painful  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment. "I  may  as  well  have  it  out  with  him  at  once,"  was 
his  conclusion.  "Yery  well,  sir,  I  will  remain  after  the 
office  is  closed,"  he  said  frigidly,  then  turned  to  his  writing. 

George  went  to  his  desk  in  his  father's  private  room,  and 
there  was  a  very  grim,  set  look  on  his  face  also.  "I  under- 
stand you,  my  future  father-in-law,"  he  murmured  softly. 


246  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

"You  think  you  are  going  to  end  this  affair  in  half  an  hour. 
We'll  see." 

The  afternoon  was  very  warm,  and  his  father  said  kindly, 
"Come,  George,  knock  off  for  to-day.  I'm  going  home  and 
shall  try  to  get  a  nap  before  dinner." 

"That's  right,  father;  do  so  by  all  means.  I  have  an 
engagement  this  evening,  so  please  don't  wait  dinner  for 
me."  His  thought  was,  "If  I'm  to  keep  my  temper  I  can't 
tackle  more  than  one  the  same  day;  yet  I  don't  believe  my 
father  will  be  obdurate.  If  I  succeed,  the  time  will  come 
when  he'll  thank  me  with  all  his  heart." 

Mr.  Houghton  had  no  disposition  to  control  his  son  in 
small  matters,  and  the  young  fellow  came  and  went  at  his 
own  will.  Thus  far  his  frankness  and  general  good  behav- 
ior had  inspired  confidence.  His  tastes  had  always  inclined 
to  athletic,  manly  sports,  and  these  are  usually  at  variance 
with  dissipation  of  every  kind. 

The  impatient  youth  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  clerks 
soon  departed,  and  the  colored  janitor  entered  on  his  labors. 
Bodine  remained  writing  quietly  until  George  came  and 
said,  "Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  come  to  the  private 
office?" 

The  veteran  deliberately  put  his  desk  in  order,  and  fol- 
lowed the  young  man  without  a  word.  There  was  still  an 
abundance  of  light  in  which  to  see  each  other's  faces,  and 
George  observed  that  Bodine' s  expression  boded  ill.  He 
took  a  seat  in  silence,  and  looked  at  the  flushed  face  of  the 
youth  coldly  and  impassively. 

"Captain  Bodine,"  George  began  hesitatingly,  "you  can 
make  this  interview  very  hard  for  me,  and  I  fear  you  will  do 
so.  Yet  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  I  wish  to  act  and  speak 
as  becomes  one  also." 

Bodine  merely  bowed  slightly. 

"I  will  use  no  circumlocution.  You  have  been  a  sol- 
dier, and  so  will  naturally  prefer  directness.  I  wish  your 
permission  to  pay  my  addresses  to  your  daughter. ' ' 

' '  I  cannot  grant  it. ' ' 


COJSSTERNATION  247 

"Please  do  not  make  so  hasty  a  decision,  sir.  I  fear  thau 
you  are  greatly  prejudiced  against  me,  but — " 

'No,  sir,"  interrupted  Bodine,  "I  am  not  prejudiced 
against  you  at  all.  I  have  my  own  personal  reasons  for 
taking  the  ground  I  do,  and  it  is  not  necessary  to  discuss 
them.     I  think  our  interview  may  as  well  end  at  once." 

"Captain  Bodine,  you  will  admit  that  I  have  acted  hon- 
orably m  this  matter.  Since  your  daughter  told  me  that 
you  were  averse  to  our  acquaintance,  I  have  made  no  effort 
to  see  her. ' ' 

"Certainly,  sir,  that  was  right  and  honorable.  Any  other 
course  would  not  have  been  so." 

"It  is  my  purpose  to  maintain  a  strictly  honorable  and 
straightforward  course  in  this  suit." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  pursue  this  suit  con- 
trary to  my  wishes  ?" 

"Certainly.  There  is  no  law,  human  or  divine,  which 
forbids  a  man  from  loving  a  good  woman,  and  Miss  Bodine 
is  good  if  any  one  is." 

"How  do  you  propose  to  carry  on  this  suit  ?"  the  captain 
asked  sternly. 

"I  scarcely  know  yet,  but  in  no  underhand  way.  1  must 
ask  you  to  inform  Miss  Bodine  of  this  interview." 

"Suppose  I  decline  to  do  this?" 

"Then  I  shall  make  it  known  to  her  myself." 

"In  other  words,  you  defy  me." 

"Not  at  all,  not  in  the  sense  in  which  you  speak.  I  shall 
take  no  action  whatever  without  your  knowledge." 

"You  must  remember  that  my  daughter  is  not  of  age." 

"I  do  not  dispute  your  right  in  the  least  to  control  her 
action  till  she  is,  but  I  shall  not  take  the  risk  of  losing  her 
by  timidity  and  delay.  Others  will  appreciate  her  worth 
as  well  as  myself.  I  wish  her  to  know  that  I  love  her,  and 
would  make  her  my  wife." 

"You  appear  to  think  that  this  is  all  that  is  essential  so 
far  as  she  is  concerned, ' '  said  Bodine,  in  bitter  sarcasm. 

"You  do  me  wrong,  sir,"  Houghton  replied,  flushing 


248  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

hotly.  "Even  if  you  should  give  your  full  consent,  I,  bet- 
ter than  any  one,  know  that  my  suit  would  be  doubtful. 
But  it  would  be  hopeless  did  I  not  reveal  to  her  my  feel- 
ings and  purposes." 

"If  she  herself,  then,  informs  you  that  it  is  hopeless, 
that  would  end  the  matter?" 

"Certainly,  after  years  of  patient  efiort  to  induce  her  to 
think  otherwise." 

"I  do  not  think  you  have  shown  any  patience  thus  far, 
sir.  You  have  scarcely  more  than  met  her  before  you  enter, 
recklessly  and  selfishly,  on  a  'suit,'  as  you  term  it,  which 
can  only  bring  wretchedness  to  her  and  to  those  who  have 
the  natural  right  to  her  allegiance  and  love." 

"You  do  me  wrong  again.  Captain  Bodine.  I  am  no 
more  reckless  or  selfish  than  any  other  man  who  would 
marry  the  girl  he  loves.  By  reason  of  circumstances  over 
which  I  had  no  control  I  have  met  Miss  Bodine,  and  she 
has  inspired  a  sacred  love,  such  as  her  mother  inspired  in 
you.  You  can  find  no  serious  fault  with  me  personally, 
and  I  am  not  responsible  for  others.  I  have  my  own  life 
to  make  or  mar,  and  never  to  win  Miss  Bodine  would  mar 
it  wofully.  I  am  an  educated  man  and  her  equal  socially, 
although  she  is  greatly  my  superior  in  other  respects.  I 
have  the  means  with  which  to  support  her  in  affiuence. 
I  mean  only  good  toward  her  and  you.  This  is  neither 
selfishness  nor  recklessness." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Mr.  Houghton  of  your  intentions?" 

"Not  yet,  but  I  shall." 

"You  will  find  him  as  bitterly  opposed  to  it  all  as  I  am." 

"I  think  not.  I  shall  be  sorry  beyond  measure  if  you  are 
right,  but  it  can  make  no  difference. ' ' 

"You  will  defy  him  also,  then?" 

"I  object  to  the  use  of  that  word,  Captain  Bodine.  In 
availing  myself  of  my  inalienable  rights  I  defy  no  one." 

"Have  I  no  rights  in  my  own  child?  Your  purpose  is 
to  rob  me  as  ruthlessly  as  our  homes  were  desolated  years 
since." 


CONSTERNATION  249 

"I  am  not  responsible  for  the  past,  any  more  than  I  am 
for  your  prejudices  against  me.  My  purpose  is  simple  and 
honorable,  as  much  so  as  that  of  any  other  man  who  may 
ask  you  for  your  daughter's  hand." 

"Mr.  Houghton,"  said  Bodine,  rising,  "there  is  no  use 
in  prolonging  this  painful  and  intensely  disagreeable  inter- 
view. I  said  to  your  father  in  this  office  that  our  relations 
could  be  only  those  of  business.  Even  these  shall  soon 
cease.  I  now  understand  you,  sir.  Of  course  the  past  is 
nothing  to  you,  and  you  are  bent  on  obtaining  what  you 
imagine  you  wish  at  the  present  moment,  without  any  re- 
gard to  others.  Let  me  tell  you  once  for  all  there  can  be 
no  alliance  between  your  house  and  mine.  I  would  as  soon 
bury  my  daughter  as  see  her  married  to  you.  I  do  find 
fault  with  you  personally.  You  are  headlong  and  incon- 
siderate. You  would  lay  your  hands  on  the  best  you  can 
find  in  the  South  just  as  your  armies  and  politicians  have 
done.  But  you  proceed  further  at  your  peril— do  you  com- 
prehend me  ?— at  your  peril, ' '  and  the  veteran' s  eyes  gleamed 

fiercely. 

"Captain  Bodine,"  said  George,  also  rising,  "you  can- 
not make  me  lose  my  temper.  I  shall  give  you  no  just 
reason  for  saying  that  1  am  headlong.  I  wish  you  could 
be  more  calm  and  fair  yourself.  Before  we  part  one  point 
must  be  settled.  My  request  must  be  met  in  one  way  or  the 
other.  If  you  will  give  me  your  word  that  you  will  repeat 
the  purport  of  what  I  have  said  to  Miss  Bodine,  I  will  make 
no  efiort  to  do  so  myself.  However  hostile  you  may  be  to 
me,  1  know  that  you  are  a  man  of  honor,  and  I  will  trust 
you.  1  merely  wish  Miss  Bodine  to  know  that  I  love  her 
and  am  willing  to  wait  for  her  till  I  am  gray." 

"You  wish  me  to  tell  her  that  you  will  wait  and  pray 
for  my  death,  and  seek  to  lead  her  to  do  likewise,"  was  the 

angry  reply. 

"It  is  useless  for  me  to  protest  against  your  unjust  and 
bitter  words.  The  trust  that  I  offer  to  repose  in  you  entitles 
me  to  better  courtesy." 


260  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

By  a  great  effort  Bodine  regained  self-control,  and  bal- 
anced himself  for  a  few  moments  on  his  crutches  in  deep 
thought.  At  last  he  said,  "I  accept  the  trust,  and  will  be 
as  fair  to  you  as  it  is  possible  for  an  outraged  father  to  be. 
I  forbid  that  you  should  have  any  communication  with  my 
daughter  whatever,  and  I  shall  forbid  her  to  receive  any 
from  you.  What  is  more,  you  must  take  her  answer  as 
final." 

"I  promise  only  this.  Captain  Bodine,  that  I  shall  take 
no  action  without  your  knowledge.  I  shall  trust  you  im- 
plicitly in  repeating  the  purport  of  this  interview.  The 
moment  that  I  looked  into  your  face  I  recognized  that  you 
were  a  gentleman,  and  I  again  apologize  for  my  rude  remark 
before  I  knew  who  you  were.     Good-evening,  sir." 

Bodine  bowed  stiffly,  and  departed  with  many  conflicting 
emotions  surging  in  his  breast,  none  of  them  agreeable.  He 
scarcely  knew  whether  he  had  acted  wisely  or  not.  Indeed, 
the  impression  grew  upon  him  that  he  had  been  worsted  in 
the  encounter,  that  George,  in  making  him  his  messenger 
to  Ella,  had  acted  with  singular  astuteness.  This  was  true, 
but  the  young  man's  action  was  not  the  result  of  the  Yankee 
shrewdness  with  which  the  veteran  was  disposed  to  credit 
him.  A  simple,  straightforward  course  is  usually  the  wisest 
one,  and  George  instinctively  knew  that  Ella  would  appre- 
ciate such  openness  on  his  part.  He  was  left  in  a  very  anx- 
ious and  perturbed  condition,  it  is  true,  but  in  his  heart  he 
again  thanked  Mrs.  Willoughby  for  putting  him  so  sacredly 
on  his  guard  against  his  hasty  temper. 

Absorbed  in  thought,  he  sat  till  the  gloom  of  night  gath- 
ered in  the  office;  then  the  shuffling  feet  of  the  impatient 
janitor  aroused  him. 

Solacing  the  old  man  with  a  dollar,  he  went  out  hastily, 
and  walked  a  mile  or  two  to  work  off  his  nervous  excite- 
ment, then  sought  a  restaurant,  muttering,  "1  haven't 
reached  the  point  of  losing  my  appetite  yet." 

By  the  time  Bodine  reached  home  he  was  much  calmer, 
and  disposed  to  take  a  much  more  hopeful  view  of  the  affair. 


CONSTERNATION  251 

He  again  concluded  that  after  all  it  was  best  that  he 
should  be  the  one  to  inform  Ella,  and  thus  keep  the  matter 
entirely  within  his  own  hands.  Believing  her  to  be  as  yet 
untouched  by  anything  that  Houghton  might  have  said  to 
her,  he  felt  quite  sure  that  he  could  readily  induce  her 
to  take  the  same  attitude  toward  the  objectionable  suitor 
which  he  proposed  to  maintain  to  the  end. 

He  found  her  and  his  cousin  very  anxious  about  his  late 
return — an  anxiety  not  allayed  by  his  grim,  stern  expression. 

''I  have  been  detained  by  an  unpleasant  interview,"  he 
said. 

''With  that  old—" 

"No,  not  with  Mr.  Houghton.  I  will  explain  after 
dinner. ' ' 

With  the  swiftness  of  light,  Ella  surmised  the  truth,  and 
made  but  a  very  indifferent  repast.  Her  father  noted  this, 
and  asked  himself,  "Could  she  have  known  of  his  pur- 
pose?" Then  he  reproached  himself  inwardly  for  enter- 
taining the  thought. 

The  meal  was  comparatively  a  silent  one,  and  soon  over; 
then  they  all  went  to  Mrs.  Bodine's  room. 

"I  wish  you  to  be  present.  Cousin  Sophy,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "for  I  have  a  very  disagreeable  task  to  perform,  and  I 
can  scarcely  trust  myself  to  do  it  fairly.  You  must  prompt 
me  if  you  think  1  do  not.  Ella,  my  dear  and  only  child,  I 
trust  that  you  will  receive  the  message,  which,  in  a  sense, 
I  have  been  compelled  to  bring  you,  in  the  right  spirit.  I 
feel  sure  that  you  will  do  so,  and  that  your  course  now  and 
hereafter  will  continue  to  give  me  that  same  deep,  glad 
peace  at  heart  which  your  fidelity  to  duty  and  your  devo- 
tion to  me  have  always  inspired.  You  have  my  happiness 
now  in  your  hands  as  never  before;  but  I  do  not  fear  that 
you  will  fail  me.  The  son  of  the  man  whom  we  all  detest, 
and  whose  employ  1  shall  leave  presently,  has  asked  permis- 
sion to  pay  you  his  addresses." 

She  turned  pale  as  he  spoke  so  gravely,  and  trembled 
visibly. 


252  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

*'Why  do  you  tell  me  this,  papa?"  she  faltered.  "I 
would  rather  not  have  known  it." 

"Because  he  requested  me  to  tell  you.  Because  he  said 
he  wished  you  to  know  that  he  loved  you,  and  that  if  I  did 
not  tell  you  he  would  himself;"  and  he  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"Then,"  cried  Ella,  impetuously,  "although  I  may  never 
speak  to  him  again,  I  say  he  has  acted  honorably.  I  told 
jou  that  he  was  incapable  of  anything  clandestine." 

"I  trust  that  you  never  will  speak  to  him  again,"  said 
her  father,  almost  sternly.  "I  have  forbidden  him  to  have 
any  communication  with  you,  and  I  certainly  forbid  your 
speaking  with  him  again. ' ' 

"Father,"  said  Ella,  gently,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "I  do 
not  deserve  that  you  should  speak  to  me  in  that  tone.  I've 
always  tried  to  obey  you." 

"Eorgive  me,  Ella,  but  I  have  been  intensely  annoyed 
by  the  interview  inflicted  upon  me,  and  I  cannot  think  of 
it,  or  of  his  preposterous  course,  with  patience.  Moreover, 
pardon  me  for  saying  it,  you  have  shown  a  friendly  interest 
in  him  which  it  has  been  very  painful  to  note." 

"I've  only  tried  to  be  fair  to  him,  papa." 

"Please  try  merely  to  forget  him,  Ella — to  think  nothing 
about  him  whatever. ' ' 

"I  shall  try  to  obey  you,  papa;  but  you  are  too  old 
and  wise  to  tell  me  not  to  think.  As  well  tell  me  not  to 
breathe. ' ' 

"Ella,"  began  her  father  sternly,  "can  you  mean—" 

"Now,  Hugh,"  interrupted  his  cousin,  "be  careful  you 
don't  do  more  mischief  than  young  Houghton  can  possibly 
accomplish.  How  men  do  bungle  in  these  matters !  Hough- 
ton hasn't  bungled,  though.  His  making  you  his  messenger 
strikes  me  as  the  shrewdest  Yankee  trick  I  ever  heard  of." 

"I  had  the  same  impression  on  my  way  home,"  admitted 
Bodine,  irritably. 

Ella  felt  that  she  owed  no  such  deference  to  Mrs.  Bodine 
as  she  did  to  her  father,  and,  with  an  ominous  flash  in  her 
eyes,  said  decidedly,  "You  are  bungling,  Cousin  Sophy. 


CONSTERNATION  253 

George  Houghton  is  incapable  of  what  you  term  a  Yankee 
trick.  I  will  be  pliant  under  all  motives  of  love  and  duty 
to  my  father,  but  you  must  not  outrage  my  sense  of  justice. 
You  must  remember  that  I  have  a  conscience,  as  truly  as 
you  have." 

"There,  forgive  me,  Ella.  You've  seen  the  young  fel- 
low, and  1  haven't.  Cousin  Hugh,  remember  that  Ella  has 
your  spirit,  and  the  spirit  of  her  ancestors.  Show  her  what 
is  right  and  best,  and  she  will  do  it. ' ' 

Bodine  looked  at  his  daughter  in  deep  perturbation. 
Could  that  flushed,  beautiful  woman  be  his  little  Ella? 
With  an  indescribable  pang  he  began  to  recognize  that 
she  was  becoming  a  woman,  with  an  independent  life  of 
her  own.  The  greatness  of  the  emergency  calmed  him,  as 
all  strong  minds  are  quieted  by  great  and  impending  dan- 
ger. "Ella,"  he  said,  gently  and  sadly,  "I  do  not  wish  to 
treat  you  as  a  little,  foolish  girl,  but  as  becomes  your  years. 
1  wish  your  conscience  and  reason  to  go  with  mine.  You 
know  that  your  happiness  is  the  chief  desire  of  my  life. 
There  could  be  no  happiness  for  either  of  us  in  such  a  mis- 
alliance. The  father  of  this  hasty  youth  will  be  as  bitterly 
opposed  to  it  all  as  1  am.  We  belong  to  different  camps, 
and  can  never  have  anything  in  common.  You  know  my 
motive  in  taking  employment  from  him.  I  have  thought 
better  of  it,  and  shall  now  leave  his  office  as  soon  as  I  can 
honorably.  I  don't  wish  to  outrage  your  sense  of  justice, 
Ella,  and  I  will  mention  one  other  essential  point  in  the  in- 
terview. I  told  young  Houghton  that  he  must  accept  your 
answer  as  final,  and  that  he  would  proceed  further  at  his 
peril,  and  he  said  he  would  only  take  a  final  answer  from 
you  after  years  of  patient  waiting  and  wooing,  flow  he 
proposes  to  do  the  latter  I  do  not  know,  nor  does  he  know 
himself.  He  did  say,  however,  that  he  would  take  no  action 
without  my  knowledge.  You  see  that  I  am  trying  to  be 
just  to  him." 

"I  would  like  to  ask  one  question,  papa.  Did  he  use 
any  angry,  disrespectful  language  toward  you  ?' ' 


254  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Bodine  winced  under  this  question,  but  said  plainly, 
*'No,  lie  did  not.  He  apologized  for  the  third  time  for  a 
hasty  remark  he  once  made  before  he  knew  who  1  was. 
He  said  that  he  recognized  that  I  was  a  gentleman  then, 
and  that  he  would  trust  me  as  such  to  deliver  his  message." 

The  girl  drew  a  long  breath  as  if  a  deep  cause  for  anxiety 
had  been  removed. 

"Oh,  come  now.  Cousin  Hugh,  you  and  Ella  are  taking 
this  matter  too  much  to  heart.  Why,  Lor  bless  you!  I  had 
nearly  a  dozen  offers  by  the  time  I  was  Ella's  age.  There 
is  nothing  tragic  about  this  young  fellow  or  his  proceed- 
ings. Indeed,  I  think  with  Ella,  that  he  has  done  remark- 
ably well,  wonderfully  well,  considering.  Nine  out  of  ten 
of  his  kind  wouldn't  be  so  scrupulous.  He  has  done  neither 
you  nor  Ella  any  wrong,  only  paid  you  the  highest  compli- 
ment in  his  power.  Regard  it  as  such,  and  let  the  matter 
end  there.  He  can't  marry  Ella  out  of  hand  any  more  than 
he  can  me." 

At  this  the  girl,  seeing  inevitably  the  comic  side  of 
everything,  burst  into  a  laugh.  "Cousin  Sophy,"  she 
cried,  "you  surpass  Solomon  himself.  Come,  dear  papa, 
let  us  try  to  be  sensible.  Of  course  Mr.  Houghton  can't 
marry  me  without  your  consent  or  mine." 

"Then  I  may  tell  him  that  you  will  never  give  your 
consent — that  what  he  terms  his  suit  must  end  at  once  and 
forever?" 

She  again  became  very  pale,  and  did  not  answer  imme- 
diately. 

"Ella,  my  only  child,  the  hope  and  solace  of  my  life, 
can  you  hesitate?" 

With  a  rush  of  tears,  she  threw  herself  upon  his  neck, 
and  sobbed,  "Tell  him  that  I  will  never  do  anything  with- 
out your  consent."     Then  she  fled  to  her  own  room. 

The  captain  and  Mrs.  Bodine  sat  looking  at  each  other 
in  consternation. 


TEMPESTS  255 


CHAPTEE  XXX 

TEMPESTS 

ON  his  return  home  George  found  his  father  reading 
such  of  the  Boston  papers  as  most  nearly  reflected 
his  own  views,  and  in  which  he  had  lost  none  of 
his  early  interest.  He  had  always  looked  upon  himself 
somewhat  in  the  light  of  an  exile,  and  it  had  been  his  pur- 
pose to  return  to  his  native  State;  but  as  time  passed,  a 
dread  of  its  har^h  climate  had  begun  to  reconcile  him  to 
the  thought  of  ending  his  days  in  Charleston.  All  morbid 
tendencies  strengthen,  if  indulged.  The  desire,  therefore, 
to  remain  near  the  watery  grave  of  his  eldest  son  increased. 
Allied  to  this  motive  was  the  pleasure  of  accumulating 
money,  the  excitement  of  business,  and  exultation  over  the 
fact  that  he  was  taking  tens  of  thousands  from  his  enemies. 
As  far  as  possible  he  invested  his  capital  at  the  North.  The 
people  among  whom  he  dwelt  knew  this,  knew  that,  unlike 
Mr.  Ainsley,  he  was  doing  as  little  as  possible  to  build  up 
the  section  from  which  he  was  drawing  his  wealth. 

George,  as  yet,  had  not  been  inducted  into  the  spirit  or 
knowledge  of  his  father's  business  methods,  for  the  old 
man  had  believed  that  the  time  for  this  had  not  come. 
Moreover,  as  the  merchant  became  better  acquainted  with 
the  maturer  character  of  his  son,  he  became  convinced  that 
George  would  not,  indeed  could  not,  carry  on  the  business 
as  he  had.  There  was  a  large,  tolerant  good-nature  about 
the  youth  which  would  render  it  impossible  for  him  to  deal 
with  any  one  in  his  father's  spirit.  He  had  not  known  his 
elder  brother,  and  was  merely  proud  of  his  record  as  that 
of  a  brave  soldier  who  had  died  in  the  performance  of  duty. 


256  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

George  was  like  many  of  the  combatants,  both  Union  and 
Confederate,  capable  of  fighting  each  other  to  the  death 
during  the  war,  but  ready  to  shake  hands  after  the  battle 
was  over. 

No  one  understood  this  disposition  better  than  Mr. 
Houghton,  and  he  felt  that  the  South  was  no  place  for 
George.  He  wished  his  son  to  go  back  to  Massachusetts, 
where  wealth  and  influence  would  open  the  way  for  a  bril- 
liant career;  and  the  old  man  already  saw  in  imagination 
his  name  famous  in  the  Old  Commonwealth. 

He  had  been  thinking  over  this  scheme  on  the  present 
evening,  and  his  mind  was  full  of  it  when  George  entered. 
''Glad  to  see  you  so  early,"  he  said  genially.  "Had  a  good 
dinner?  Yes;  well,  then,  sit  down  a  while,  for  I  wish  to 
talk  to  you.  I've  had  a  good  nap,  and  so  won't  need  to  go 
to  bed  very  early.  Well,  my  boy,  you've  reached  that  age 
when  you  should  take  your  bearings  for  your  future  career." 

"Why,  father,  I've  always  expected  to  go  into  business 
with  you,  and  gradually  relieve  you  of  its  burdens  and  cares. ' ' 

"No,  George,  that  wouldn't  be  best;  that  wouldn't  suit 
me  at  all.  You  are  fitted  for  something  better  and  larger. 
You  wouldn't  carry  on  the  business  as  I  do,  and  that  would 
lead  to  differences  between  us.  I  couldn't  stand  that.  The 
iron  entered  into  my  soul  before  you  were  born.  Your 
brother  had  equal  promise  with  yourself,  and,  to  put  it 
very  mildly,  I  have  no  love  for  those  who  destroyed  him. 
1  do  business  with  them,  but  in  much  the  same  spirit  that 
Antonio  dealt  with  the  Jew  on  the  Eialto.  You  would  not 
do  this,  nor  could  I  expect  you  to.  The  accursed  crime 
of  rebellion  has  not  smitten  your  soul  as  with  lightning, 
nor  broken  your  heart.  The  young  fall  into  the  ways  of 
those  with  whom  they  live,  and  I  wish  you  to  have  as  little 
to  do  with  this  Southern  people  as  possible.  There  is  no 
career  for  you  in  this  city,  but  in  your  native  State  you  can 
become  almost  what  you  please.  If,  for  instance,  with  your 
splendid  health  you  entered  upor  the  study  of  law  and 
mastered  it,  I  have  influence  and  wealth  enough  to  advance 


TEMPESTS  257 

you  rapidly,  until  by  your  own  grip  you  can  climb  to  the 
top  of  the  ladder.  You  can  then  eventually  marry  into  one 
of  the  best  families  in  the  State,  and  thus  at  the  same  time 
secure  happiness  and  double  your  chances  of  success." 

George  listened  aghast  as  his  father  proceeded  compla- 
cently, and  with  a  touch  of  enthusiasm  rarely  indulged. 
He  was  sitting  by  an  open  window,  at  some  distance  from 
Mr.  Houghton,  the  darkness  concealing  his  face.  He  now 
began  to  realize  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Willoughby's  belief  and 
Bodine's  conviction,  that  he  might  find  as  much  trouble 
at  home  as  elsewhere.  It  quickly  became  clear  to  him  that 
he  must  reveal  the  truth  at  once,  but  how  to  set  about  it  he 
scarcely  knew,  and  he  hesitated  like  one  on  the  brink  of 
icy  water.  What  he  considered  a  bright  thought  struck 
him,  and  he  said,  "Speaking  of  marrying,  you  never  told 
me  how  you  came  to  marry  mother. 

"Oh!"  replied  the  old  man  dreamily,  "I  was  almost 
brought  up  to  marry  her.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  near 
neighbor  and  dear  friend  of  my  father's.  Your  mother  and 
I  played  together  as  children.  I  scarcely  think  we  knew 
when  our  mutual  affection  changed  into  love— it  all  came 
about  so  gradually  and  naturally— and  the  union  gave  the 
deepest  satisfaction  to  both  families.  Ah  I  George,  George, 
your  brother's  death  shortened  the  life  of  your  mother,  and 
left  me  very  sad  and  lonely.  1  can  never  forgive  this  people 
Jor  the  irreparable  injuries  they  have  done  to  me  and  mine. 
I  know  you  cannot  feel  as  I  do;  but  love  of  country  and 
jour  affection  for  me  should  lead  you  to  stand  aloof  from 
those  who  are  still  animated  by  the  old,  diabolical  spirit 
which  caused  the  death  of  such  brave  fellows  as  your 
brother,    and    broke   the   hearts   of   such   women   as  your 

mother." 

His  son's  distress  was  so  deep  that  he  buried  his  face  in 

his  hands. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  your  feelings  are  touched  by  my 
reminiscences,  George,"  and  the  old  man  wiped  tears  from 
his  own  eyes. 


258  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Oh,  father!"  cried  the  son,  springing  up,  and  placing 
his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  "I'ni  going  to  test  your 
love  for  me  severely.  You  are  right  in  saying  I  cannot  feel 
as  you  do.  I  did  not  know  that  you  felt  so  strongly.  I've 
given  my  love  to  a  Southern  girl." 

Moments  of  oppressive  silence  followed  this  announce- 
ment, and  the  old  man's  face  grew  stern  and  rigid. 

"Father,  listen  patiently,"  George  began.  "She  is  not 
to  blame  for  the  past,  nor  am  1.  If  you  only  knew  how 
good  and  noble  and  lovely  she  is — " 

*' Wh.0  is  she  ?     What  is  her  name  ?" 

**EllaBodine." 

"What I  A  relative  of  that  double-dyed  rebel  in  my 
office?" 

"His  daughter." 

"George  Houghton!"  and  his  father  sprang  up,  and  con- 
fronted his  son  with  a  visage  distorted  by  anger.  Never 
had  the  youth  called  forth  a  look  like  that,  and  he  trem- 
bled before  the  passion  he  had  evoked. 

"Father,"  he  said  entreatingly,  "sit  down.  Do  not  look 
at  me  so,  do  not  speak  to  me  till  you  are  calm.  Eemember 
1  am  your  son." 

The  old  man  paced  the  room  for  a  few  moments  in  strong 
agitation,  for  he  had  been  wounded  at  his  most  vulnerable 
point.  The  thought  that  his  only  son  would  ally  himself 
with  those  whom  he  so  detested,  and  whom  for  years  he 
had  sought  to  punish,  almost  maddened  him.  As  we  have 
seen  before,  there  was  a  slumbering  volcano  in  this  old 
man's  breast  when  adequate  causes  called  it  into  action, 
and  now  the  deepest  and  strongest  forces  of  his  nature  were 
awakened. 

At  last  he  said  in  a  constrained  voice:  "I  hope  you  also 
will  remember  that  1  am  your  father.  It  would  appear  that 
you  had  forgotten  the  fact,  when  you  made  love  to  one 
whom  I  never  can  call  daughter." 

"I  have  not  made  love  to  her  yet.     You — " 
"Has  she  been  making  love  to  you  then?'* 


TEMPESTS  259 

"Father,  please  don't  speak  in  that  way.  There  never 
were  harsh  words  between  us  before,  and  there  must  not 

be  now." 

Again  the  dreadful  silence  fell  between  them,  but  it  was 
evident  that  Mr.  Houghton  was  making  a  great  effort  for 
self-control. 

"You  are  right,  Greorge,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  have  never 
spoken  to  you  before  as  I  have  to-night,  and,  I  hope  to  God, 
I  may  never  have  cause  to  do  so  again.  I  have  not  been  a 
harsh  father,  nor  have  I  inflicted  my  unhappiness  on  you. 
I  have  given  you  large  liberty,  the  best  education  that 
you  would  take,  and  ample  means  with  which  to  enjoy 
yourself.  I  had  expected  that  in  return  you  would  consult 
my  wishes  in  some  vital  matters — as  vital  to  your  happiness 
as  mine.  I  never  dreamed  that  such  incredible  folly  as  you 
have  mentioned  was  possible.  Your  very  birthright  pre- 
cluded the  idea.  You  said  that  you  would  have  to  test  my 
love  severely.  I  shall  not  only  have  to  test  your  love,  but 
also  your  reason,  your  common-sense,  almost  your  sanity. 
What  is  thought  of  a  man  who  throws  away  everything  for 
a  pretty  face  ?" 

"That  I  shall  never  do,  father.  The  beauty  in  Ella 
Bodine's  face  is  but  the  reflex  of  her  character." 

"That's  what  every  enamored  fool  has  said  from  the 
beginning  of  time,"  replied  Mr.  Houghton,  in  strong  irrita- 
tion. "What  chance  have  you  had  to  learn  her  character? 
I  know  more  about  the  girl  and  her  connections  than  you 
do.  She  works  with  that  Wallingf  ord  girl,  and  that  old  fire- 
eater,  Mrs.  Hunter,  in  the  baking  trade.  She  lives  with  her 
cousin  old  Mrs.  Bodine,  who  thinks  of  little  else  than  what 
she  is  pleased  to  consider  her  blue  blood,  forgetting  that  it 
is  not  good,  loyal,  American  blood.  This  little  patch  of  a 
State  is  more  to  her  than  the  Union  bequeathed  to  us  by 
our  fathers.  As  to  Bodine  himself,  if  the  South  rose  again, 
he'd  march  away  on  his  crutches  with  the  rebellious  army. 
Can  you  soberly  expect  to  live  among  such  a  set  of  people  ? 
Can  you  expect  me  to  fraternize  with  them,  to  stultify  all 


260  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

my  life,  to  trample  on  my  most  sacred  convictions,  to  be 
disloyal  to  the  memory  of  wife  and  son,  who  virtually  per- 
ished by  the  action  of  just  such  traitors?"  and  he  laughed 
in  harsh,  bitter  protest. 

George  sat  down,  again  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
groaned  aloud. 

"You  may  well  groan,  young  man,  when  you  face  the 
truth  which  you  have  so  strangely  forgotten.  But  come, 
I'm  not  one  to  yield  weakly  to  any  such  monstrous  absur- 
dity. You  are  young  and  strong,  and  should  have  a  spirit 
equal  to  your  stature  and  muscle.  You  have  not  made  love 
to  this  girl,  you  say.  Never  do  it.  Steer  as  wide  of  her  as 
you  would  of  a  whirlpool,  and  all  will  soon  be  well.  I  won't 
believe  that  a  son  of  mine  can  be  so  wretchedly,  miserably, 
and  contemptibly  weak  as  to  throw  himself  away  in  this 
fashion." 

George  was  silent  and  overwhelmed.  His  father's  words 
had  opened  an  abyss  at  his  feet.  He  loved  the  old  man 
tenderly  and  gratefully,  and,  under  his  burning,  scathing 
words,  felt  at  the  time  that  his  course  was  black  ingrati- 
tude. Even  if  he  could  face  the  awful  estrangement  which 
he  saw  must  ensue,  the  thought  of  striking  such  a  blow  at 
his  father's  hopes,  affection  and  confidence  made  him  shud- 
der in  his  very  soul.  It  might  be  fatal  even  to  a  life  already 
held  in  the  feeble  grasp  of  age.     He  could  not  speak. 

At  last  Mr.  Houghton  resumed,  very  gravely,  and  yet 
not  unkindly :  ' '  You  are  not  the  first  one  of  your  age  who 
has  been  on  the  verge  of  an  irreparable  blunder.  Thank 
God  it  is  not  too  late  for  you  to  retreat !  Do  not  let  this 
word  jar  upon  you,  for  it  often  requires  much  higher  cour- 
age and  manhood  to  retreat  than  to  advance.  To  do  the 
latter  in  this  case  would  be  as  foolhardy  as  it  would  be 
wrong  and  disastrous  to  all  concerned.  It  would  be  as  fatal 
to  me  as  to  you,  for  I  could  not  long  survive  if  I  learned 
that  I  had  been  leaning  on  such  a  broken  reed.  It  would 
be  fatal  to  you,  for  I  would  not  leave  my  money  so  you 
could  enrich  these  people.     You  would  have  nothing  in  the 


TEMPESTS  261 

world  but  the  pretty  face  for  which  you  sold  your  birth- 
right. I  will  say  no  more  now,  George.  Y"ou  will  wake  in 
the  morning  a  sane  man,  and  my  son.     Good-night." 

"Good- night,  father,"  George  answered  in  a  broken 
voice.  Then,  when  alone,  he  added  bitterly:  "Wake! 
When  shall  I  sleep  again?" 

The  eastern  horizon  was  tinged  with  light  before,  ex- 
hausted by  his  fierce  mental  conflict,  he  sank  into  a  respite 
of  oblivion.  For  a  long  time  he  wavered,  love  for  his  father 
tugging  at  his  heart  with  a  restraining  power  far  beyond 
that  of  words  which  virtually  were  threats.  "He  could 
keep  his  money,"  the  young  fellow  groaned,  "if  I  could 
only  keep  his  affection  and  confidence,  if  I  could  only  be 
sure  that  I  would  not  harm  his  life  and  health.  I  could  be 
happy  in  working  as  a  day-laborer  for  her." 

At  last  he  came  to  a  decision.  He  had  given  both  bis 
love  and  his  word  to  Ella.  She  only  could  reject  the  one, 
and  absolve  him  from  the  other. 

He  was  troubled  to  find  that  the  forenoon  had  nearly 
passed  when  he  awoke.  Dressing  hastily,  he  went  down  to 
make  inquiries  for  his  father. 

"Marse  Houghton  went  to  de  sto'  at  de  us'l  time,"  said 
the  colored  waiter.  "He  lef  word  not  to  'sturb  you,  an'  ter 
hab  you'se  breakfus'  ready." 

George  merely  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  then  hast- 
ened down  town.  Meanwhile,  events  had  occurred  at  the 
office  which  require  attention. 

A  very  few  moments  after  Mr.  Houghton  entered  his 
private  room  he  touched  a  bell.  To  the  clerk  who  entered 
he  said,  "Take  this  letter  to  Mr.  Bodine." 

The  veteran's  face  was  as  rigid  and  stern  with  his  pur- 
pose as  the  employer  was  grim  in  his  resolves;  but  when 
the  captain  read  the  curt  note  handed  to  him,  his  face  grew 
dark  with  passion.     It  ran  as  follows: 

"Mr.  Bodine — I  have  no  further  need  of  your  services.     Inclosed  find 
check  for  your  wages  to  the  end  of  the  month." 


262  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

The  captain  sat  Btill  a  few  moments  to  regain  self-control 
then  quietly  put  his  desk  in  order.  He  next  halted  to  the 
private  office,  and  the  two  men  looked  steadily  and  un- 
blenchingly  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  moment.  Then  the 
Southerner  began  sternly,  "That  hair-brained  son  of  yours 
has  told  you  of  the  interview  he  forced  upon  me  last  night. ' ' 

"This  is  my  private  office,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Houghton, 
with  equal  sternness.  "You  have  no  right  to  enter  it,  or  to 
use  such  language. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,  I  have  the  right.  Were  it  not  for  the  folly  and 
presumption  of  your  headlong  boy,  I  would  have  left  your 
employ  quietly  in  a  few  days,  and  had  nothing  more  to  do 
with  you  or  yours.  To  save  my  daughter  annoyance  from 
his  silly  sentimentality  I  was  compelled  to  come  into  this 
hated  place  wherein  you  concoct  your  schemes  to  suck  dry 
our  Southern  blood.  He  asked  for  permission  to  pay  his 
addresses  to  my  daughter,  and  I  forbade  it.  I  told  him  that 
he  could  only  do  so  at  his  peril." 

"You  are  certainly  right,  sir.  I  also  have  told  him  that 
he  would  do  so  at  his  peril. ' ' 

"I  also  told  him  that  I  would  rather  bury  my  daughter 
than  see  her  married  to  him. ' ' 

' '  Truly,  sir,  I  never  imagined  we  could  agree  so  perfectly 
on  any  question, ' '  was  Mr.  Houghton '  s  sarcastic  reply.  ' '  Can 
we  not  now  part  with  this  clear  understanding?  I  have 
much  to  attend  to  this  morning." 

"I  have  but  one  word  more,  and  then  trust  I  am  through 
with  his  sentimentality  and  your  insolence.  Tell  the  boy 
that  my  daughter  says  she  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  him 
without  my  consent.  Now  if  there  is  even  the  trace  of  a 
gentleman  in  his  anatomy  he  will  leave  us  alone.  Good- 
morning,  sir. ' '  And  tearing  the  check  in  two,  he  dropped 
it  on  the  floor  and  halted  away. 

Mr.  Houghton  coolly  and  contemptuously  turned  to  his 
writing  till  the  door  closed  on  Bodine,  and  then  he  smiled 
and  rubbed  his  hands  in  self-felicitation.  "This  is  better 
than  I  had  hoped,"  he  said.     "I've  often  laughed  at  the 


TEMPESTS  263 

idiotic   pride    of    these    black-blooded,    rather   than   blue- 
blooded,  fire-eaters,  but  I  shall  bless  it  hereafter." 

"As  you  virtually  say,  you  hardened  old  rebel,  if  George 
is  worth  the  powder  to  blow  him  up,  he'll  drop  you  all  now 
as  if  you  had  the  plague.  I've  only  to  tell  him  what  you 
and  your  doll- daughter  have  said." 


264  TEE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


I  ABSOLVE  you" 


WHEN  George  reached  the  counting-rooms,  he  saw 
that  Bodine  was  not  in  his  accustomed  pla^e. 
Surmising  the  truth  at  once,  he  hastened  to  his 
father's  room,  and  asked  almost  sternly: 

"Where  is  Captain  Bodine?" 

"I  neither  know  nor  care,"  was  the  cool  reply.  "He  is 
dismissed  from  my  service." 

"You  have  acted  unjustly,  sir,"  his  son  began  hotly, 
"you  have  punished  him  for  my — " 

"George,"  interrupted  his  father  gravely,  "remember 
what  you  said  about  angry  words  between  us." 

The  young  man  paced  the  office  excitedly  for  a  few  mo- 
ments in  silence  and  then  sat  down. 

"That's  right,"  resumed  his  father  quietly.  "I  am  glad 
you  are  able  to  attain  self-control,  for  you  now  require  the 
full  possession  of  all  your  faculties.  Fortunately  for  both 
of  us,  this  man,  Bodine,  has  said  more  than  enough  to  end 
this  folly  forever,"  and  he  began  to  repeat  the  conversation 
which  had  taken  place. 

At  a  certain  point  George  started,  and,  looking  at  his 
father  with  a  shocked  expression,  asked,  "Did  you  mean, 
sir,  that  you  also  would  rather  see  me  buried  than  married 
to  a  good  woman  whom  I  love  ?" 

"That  is  your  way  of  putting  it,"  replied  Mr.  Hough- 
ton, somewhat  disconcerted,  for  his  son's  tone  and  look 
smote  him  sorely.  "You  will  understand  my  feelings  bet- 
ter when  you  have  heard  that  rebel's  final  words;"  and  he 


•*i   ABSOLVE    YOU''  265 

repeated  them,  ending  with  the  sentences,  *'  'Tell  the  boy 
that  my  daughter  says  she  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him  without  my  consent.  Now  if  there  is  even  the  trace 
of  a  gentleman  in  his  anatomy  he  will  leave  us  alone.*  In 
this  final  remark  I  certainly  do  agree  with  him  most  em- 
phatically," concluded  the  old  man  sternly.  '*Any  human 
being,  possessing  a  particle  of  self-respect,  would  prefer 
death  to  the  humiliation  and  dishonor  of  seeking  to  force 
himself  on  such  people."  \ 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,  sir,  but  I  cannot  help  having  ^ 
my  own  thoughts." 

"Well,  what  are  they  ?" 

' '  That  the  girl  has  met  in  her  home  the  same  harsh,  ter- 
rible opposition  that  I  have  found  in  mine. ' ' 

"Undoubtedly,  thank  heaven!  Whether  she  needed  it 
or  not  she  has  evidently  had  the  sense  to  take  the  whole- 
some medicine.  The  probabilities  are,  however,  that  she 
has  laughed  at  the  idea  of  receiving  attentions  so  repug- 
nant to  her  father  and  to  me." 

"No  doubt,"  said  George  wearily.  "Yery  well,  there  is 
a  trace  of  a  gentleman  in  my  anatomy.  I  would  like  to  leave 
town  for  a  while." 

"A  very  sensible  wish,  George,"  said  his  father  kindly. 
"Go  where  you  please,  and  take  all  the  money  you  need. 
When  you  have  come  to  see  this  affair  in  its  true  light 
come  back  to  me.  I  will  try  to  arrange  my  business  so 
that  we  can  make  a  visit  North  together  in  the  early 
autumn." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  and  there  was  apathy  in  his  tones. 
After  a  moment  he  added,  "Please  give  me  some  work 
this  morning." 

"No,  my  boy.  Go  and  make  your  preparations  at  once. 
Divert  your  thoughts  into  new  channels.  Be  a  resolute  man 
for  a  few  days,  and  then  your  own  manhood  will  right  you 
as  a  boat  is  righted  when  keeled  over  by  a  sudden  gust. ' ' 

George  was  not  long  in  forming  the  same  plan  which 
Clancy  had  adopted.     He  would  go  to  the  mountains  in 

L— Roe— XV 


266  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

the  interior,  fish,  hunt  and  tramp  till  the  fever  in  his  blood 
subsided.     He  told  his  father  of  his  purpose. 

"All  right,  George.  I  only  wish  I  were  young  and 
strong  enough  to  go  with  you.  It  will  not  be  long  before 
you  will  see  that  I  have  had  at  heart  only  what  was  best  for 
you." 

"I  hope  so,  father;  I  truly  do,  for  I  have  had  a  new, 
strange  experience.  Even  yet  I  can  scarcely  comprehend 
that  you  and  Mr.  Bodine  could  speak  to  your  children,  and 
dictate  to  them  in  matters  relating  to  their  happiness  as  you 
both  have  done.  It  savors  more  of  feudal  times  than  of  this 
free  age." 

*'In  all  times,  George,  the  hasty  passions  and  inconsid- 
erate desires  of  the  young,  when  permitted  gratification, 
have  led  to  a  lifetime  of  wretchedness.  But  we  need  not 
refer  to  this  matter  again.  Bodine' s  final  words  have  settled 
it  for  all  time." 

"It  would  certainly  seem  so,"  said  young  Houghton. 
"Well,  I  will  make  my  preparations  to  start  to-morrow." 

His  first  step  was  to  go  direct  to  Mrs.  Willoughby,  and 
his  dejected  expression  revealed  to  the  lady  that  her  antici- 
pations of  strong  opposition  were  correct. 

"I  won't  annoy  you,"  she  said,  as  George  sat  down  and 
looked  at  her  with  troubled  eyes,  "by  that  saying  of  com- 
placently sagacious  people,  'I  told  you  so.'  Yon  may  tell 
me  all  if  you  wish." 

"I  do  so  wish,  for  I  fear  my  way  is  blocked."  And  he 
related  all  that  had  occurred.  When  he  ended  with  Bo- 
dine's  final  words  she  said  thoughtfully,  "Such  language  as 
that,  combined  with  Ella's  message,  does  seem  to  end  the 
affair. ' ' 

"Well,  I  know  this  much,"  he  replied  ruefully,  "I  am 
a  gentleman.  No  matter  what  it  costs  me  I  must  continue 
to  be  one. ' ' 

"Yes,  Mr.  Houghton,  you  have  acted  like  a  gentleman, 
nnd,  as  you  say,  you  must  continue  to  do  so.  Let  me  con- 
gratulate and  thank  you  for  keeping  your  temper." 


•'/   ABSOLVE    YOU''  267 

''I  nearly  lost  it  when  I  learned  that  my  father  had  dis- 
charged Mr.  Bodine." 

"I  understand  how  you  felt  then.  You  were  sorely  tried 
as  I  feared.  Have  you  any  reason  to  think  that  Ella  feels 
in  any  such  way  as  you  do  ?" 

*'None  at  all.  My  best  hope  was,  that  with  time  and  op- 
portunity I  could  awaken  like  regard.  While  not  at  all  san- 
guine, 1  would  have  made  every  effort  in  my  power  to  win 
her  respect  and  love.  Bat  now  what  can  I  do  ?  If  I  take 
another  step  I  must  forfeit  my  father's  love  and  confidence, 
which  is  far  more  to  me  than  his  money.  I  have  at  least 
brain  and  muscle  enough  to  earn  a  living  for  us  both.  1 
fear,  however,  that  such  a  course  would  kill  the  old  gen- 
tleman. I  could  meet  this  problem  by  simply  waiting  if 
Ella  cared  for  me,  but  she  and  her  father  have  made  it 
impossible  to  approach  her  again.  She  has  said  she  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  me  without  her  father's  consent, 
and  he  has  said  that  he  would  rather  bury  her  than  permit 
my  attentions. ' ' 

"Well,  my  friend,  1  see  how  it  is,  and  I  absolve  you  ut- 
terly.    You  can't  go  forward  under  the  circumstances." 

"No,  for  she  would  now  probably  meet  any  effort  on  my 
part  with  contempt,  and  agree  with  her  father  that  a  North- 
ern man  couldn't  even  appreciate  words  that  were  like  a 
kick." 

"Well,  then,  go  to  the  mountains  and  forget  all  about 
it.  If  Ella  had  set  her  heart  upon  you  as  you  have  on  her, 
and  you  both  could  be  patiently  constant,  the  future  might 
have  possibilities;  but  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  make  no  fur- 
ther effort  under  the  circumstances." 

George  went  home  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  grimly  en- 
tered upon  the  first  hard  battle  of  his  life. 

Ella  tried  to  be  her  old  mirthful  self  when  she  came 
down  to  breakfast  that  morning,  and  succeeded  fairly  well. 
In  spite  of  her  father's  bitter  words  and  opposition  he  had 
told  her  a  truth  that  was  like  the  sun  in  the  sky.  George 
Houghton  loved  her,  and  he  had  revealed  his  love  in  no 


268  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

underhand  way.  She  was  proud  of  him;  she  exulted  over 
him,  and,  in  the  delicious  pain  of  her  own  awakening  heart, 
she  forgot  nearly  everything  except  the  fact  that  he  loved 
her. 

Bodine  was  perplexed  by  her  manner  and  not  wholly  re- 
assured. When  she  had  kissed  him  good- by  for  the  day, 
he  said,  "Cousin  Sophy,  perhaps  our  fears  last  night  had 
little  foundation.  Ella  does  not  seem  cast  down  this 
morning." 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head  and  only  remarked,  "I 
hope  it  is  not  as  serious  as  I  feared." 

"Why  do  you  fear  so  greatly?" 

"Suppose  Ella  does  care  for  him  more  than  we  could 
wish,  the  fact  you  told  her  last  night  that  this  young  fel- 
low loves  her,  or  thinks  he  does,  would  be  very  exhilarat- 
ing.    Oh,  I  know  a  woman's  heart.     We're  all  alike." 

"Curse  him!"  muttered  the  captain. 

"No,  no,  no,  pray  for  your  enemies.  That's  com- 
manded, but  not  that  we  should  marry  our  daughters  to 
them.  Dear  Cousin  Hugh,  we  must  keep  our  comon-sense 
in  this  matter.  This  is  probably  Ella's  first  little  love  af- 
fair, and  girls  as  well  as  boys  often  have  two  or  three  before 
they  settle  down.  Ella  will  soon  get  over  it,  if  we  ignore 
the  whole  affair  as  far  as  possible.  You  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for,  since  neither  of  the  young  people  is  sly  and 
underhanded.  Never  fear.  That  old  Houghton  will  set  his 
boy  down  more  decidedly  than  you  have  Ella,  and  also  send 
him  out  of  town  probably.  This  cloud  will  sink  below  the 
horizon  before  we  are  many  months  older.  Perhaps  Ella 
will  mope  a  little  for  a  time,  but  we  must  not  notice  it,  and 
must  make  it  as  cheerful  for  her  as  possible.  Charleston 
men  are  beginning  to  call  on  her,  and  she'll  soon  discover 
that  there  are  others  in  the  world  besides  George  Hough- 
ton." 

But  the  veteran  halted  to  his  work  sore-hearted  and 
angry.  Strong-willed  and  decided  as  Mr.  Houghton  him- 
self, he  could  not  endure  the  truth  that  his  daughter  had 


**/   ABSOLVE    YOU"  269 

looked  with  favor  on  one  so  intensely  disagreeable  to  him. 
He,  too,  felt  that  such  an  alliance  would  stultify  his  life  and 
all  his  past,  that  it  would  bring  him  into  contempt  with 
those  whose  respect  he  most  valued.  Y'oung  Houghton's 
coolness  and  resolute  purpose  to  ignore  his  opposition,  to- 
gether with  the  fact  that  Ella  was  not  indifferent,  troubled 
him,  and  led  to  the  determination  to  take  the  strongest 
measures  within  his  power  to  prevent  further  complica- 
tions. This  resolve  accounted  for  his  visit  to  Mr.  Hough- 
ton's office  and  the  words  he  uttered  there.  His  employer, 
however,  had  aroused  his  anger  to  the  last  degree,  and  he 
returned  home  in  a  rage. 

Mrs.  Bodine  listened  quietly  to  his  recital  of  what  had 
occurred,  and  then  said,  with  her  irrepressible  little  laugh, 
"Well,  it  was  Greek  meeting  Greek.  You  both  fired  regu- 
lar broadsiders.  Cool  off.  Cousin  Hugh.  Don't  you  see  that 
all  things  are  working  for  the  best  ?  Your  rupture  with  old 
Houghton  will  only  secure  you  greater  favor  with  our  peo- 
ple, and  Ella  be  cured  all  the  sooner  of  any  weakness  to- 
ward that  old  curmudgeon's  son." 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  her  father  most  emphatically. 

"Don't  you  be  harsh  to  Ella.  We  can  laugh  her  out  of 
this  fancy  much  better  than  scold  or  threaten  her  out  of  it." 

"I  shall  not  do  either,"  said  Bodine  gravely.  "I  shall 
tell  her  the  facts  and  then  trust  to  her  love,  loyalty  and 
good  sense.     It  has  been  no  laughing  matter  to  me." 

Ella's  cheerfulness  and  happiness  grew  apace  all  the 
morning,  "To  think  that  I  should  have  brought  that  great 
Vandal  to  my  feet  so  soon!"  she  thought,  smiling  to  her- 
self. "Dear  me!  Why  can't  people  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones ?  Now  if  I  could  see  him,  naturally  what  a  chase  I 
could  lead  him!  If  he  thinks  I'll  put  my  two  hands  to- 
gether and  say,  'Please,  sir,  don't  exert  yourself.  The 
weather  is  too  warm  for  that.  Behold  thine  handmaid,' 
he  will  be  so  mistaken  that  he  will  make  some  poor  dm- 
ners.  I'd  be  bound  to  keep  him  sighing  like  a  furnace  for 
a  time.     Well,  well,  I  fear  we  both  will  have  to  do  a  lot  of 


270  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

sighing,  but  time  and  patience  see  many  changes.  As  Ann' 
Sheba  says,  he's  on  "bation,'  and,  if  he  holds  out,  our  stern 
fathers  may  eventually  see  that  the  best  way  to  be  happy 
themselves  is  to  make  us  happy.  He  thinks  I'm  a  very- 
frigid  representative  of  the  Southern  people.  Wouldn't 
he  dance  a  jig  if  he  knew  ?  Well,  speed  thee  on,  old 
Father  Time,  and  touch  softly  obdurate  hearts."  Thus 
with  the  hopefulness  of  youth  she  looked  forward. 

Mara  regarded  her  with  misgivings,  but  asked  no  ques- 
tions.  She  also  was  sadly  preocc apied  with  her  own  thoughts. 

''Aun'  Sheba,"  Ella  said,  as  the  old  woman  entered,  "I 
rather  like  this  '  'bation'  scheme  of  yours.  I  think  of  put- 
ting myself  on  '  'bation.'  " 

"Oh,  you  go  long,  honey.  Doan  you  make  light  ob 
serus  tings." 

"I'm  doing  nothing  of  the  kind,  Aun'  Sheba.  I've  too 
much  respect  for  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  well,  honey,  sich  as  you  gits  'ligion  jes  as  you  did 
de  measles.  It's  kin  ob  bawn  an'  baptize  inter  yez  wen  you 
doan  know  it.  But  I'se  got  to  hab  a  po'ful  conwiction  ob 
sin  fust,  an'  dats  de  trouble  wid  me.  I  says  to  myself, 
'Aun'  Sheba,  you'se  a  wile  sinner.  Why  doan  you  cry 
an'  groan,  an'  hab  a  big  conwiction?  Den  you  feel  mo' 
shuah;'  but  de  conwiction  won'  come  no  how.  Sted  ob 
groanin'  I  gits  sleepy." 

"Well,  I  think  I've  got  a  conviction,  Aun'  Sheba,  and 
I'm  not  a  bit  sleepy." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  dribin  at.  Bettah  be  keerful 
how  you  talk,  honey." 

"I  think  so  too,  Ella." 

"Oh,  Mara!  you  take  such  'lugubrious'  views,  as  I  heard 
some  one  say.  There,  Aun'  Sheba!  I'll  sober  down  some 
day. '  * 


FALSE   SELF-SACRIFICE  271 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

FALSE   SELF-SACRIFICE 

ELLA  was  very  much  surprised  to  find  her  father  read- 
ing in  the  parlor  when  she  returned  home.     "Why- 
papa!"  she  cried,  with  misgivings  of  trouble,  "are 
you  not  well?" 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  am,  Ella,  but  my  pain  is  mental 
rather  than  physical.  Mr.  Houghton  dismissed  me  with 
insalts  from  his  service  this  morning." 

Ella  flushed  scarlet.  "Where  was  young  Mr.  Hough- 
ton?" she  asked  indignantly. 

"Sent  to  Coventry,  probably.  He  evidently  did  not  dare 
put  in  an  appearance. " 

She  sat  down  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Ella,"  said  her  father  very  gravely,  "I  shall  not  treat 
you  as  a  child.  You  have  compelled  me  to  recognize  that 
you  are  no  longer  the  little  girl  that  had  grown  so  gradually 
and  lovingly  at  my  side. ' ' 

"Papa,"  cried  Ella,  "I  am  not  less  lovingly  at  your  side 
to-day." 

"I  hope  so.  I  shall  believe  it  if,  with  the  spirit  which 
becomes  your  birth,  you  do  take  your  place  at  my  side  in 
unrelenting  hostility  to  these  Houghtons  who  have  heaped 
insult  upon  us,  the  son  by  rash,  headlong  action  which  he 
would  soon  regret,  and  the  father  by  insufferable  insolence. 
But  you  shall  judge  for  yourself. ' '  And  he  began,  as  Mr. 
Houghton  had  done,  to  repeat  what  had  passed  between 
them. 


272  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

At  the  same  terrible  words  which  had  smitten  George, 
she  also  cried,  "Papa,  did  you  say  you  would  rather  bury 
me?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  veteran  sternly,  "and  I  would  rather  be 
buried  myself.  You  must  remember  that  I  am  at  heart  a 
soldier  and  not  a  trader.  I  could  not  survive  dishonor  to 
you  or  myself;  and  any  relation  except  that  of  enmity  to 
these  Houghtons  would  humiliate  me  into  the  very  mire. 
What's  more,  Mr.  Houghton  feels  in  the  same  way  about 
his  son.  I  am  not  one  whit  more  averse  than  he  is.  He 
virtually  said  that  he  would  disinherit  and  cast  out  his  son 
should  he  continue  to  offend  by  seeking  your  hand.  I,  in 
return,  told  him  that  if  the  sentimental  boy  had  even  the 
trace  of  a  gentleman  in  his  anatomy  he  would  leave  us 
alone.  Now  you  can  measure  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 
The  name  of  our  ancestors,  the  sacred  cause  for  which  I 
and  so  many  that  I  loved  perilled  and  lost  life,  forbid  that 
I  should  take  any  other  course.  Turn  from  this  folly  and 
all  will  be  serene  and  happy  soon.  I  can  obtain  a  position 
elsewhere.  Surely,  Ella,  you  are  too  true  a  Southern  girl 
to  have  given  your  heart  unsought,  unasked  to  your  knowl- 
edge till  last  night.  Your  very  pride  should  rescue  you 
from  such  a  slough  as  this." 

The  girl  had  turned  pale  and  red  as  he  spoke.  Now  she 
rose  and  said  falteringly:  "Papa,  I'm  no  hypocrite.  As  I 
told  you  last  night,  I  will  do  nothing  whatever  without 
your  consent." 

' '  You  will  never  have  my  consent  even  to  speak  to  that 
fellow." 

"Very  well  then,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  ends  it." 

So  apparently  it  did.  Ella  went  to  her  room  and  for 
a  few  moments  indulged  in  a  passion  of  grief.  "Oh,  to 
think,"  she  moaned,  "that  fathers  can  say  to  their  children 
that  they  would  rather  bury  them  than  give  up  the  bitter- 
ness of  an  old  and  useless  enmity !  It  is  indeed  all  ended, 
for  Ae  would  never  look  at  me  again  after  papa's  words." 
In  a  few  moments  she  added,  "Mine  also,  mine  also,  for  I 


FALSE   SELF-SACRIFICE  278 

said   'Tell  him  I  will  do  nothing  without  papa's  consent.' 
Well,  I  only  hope  he  can  get  over  it  easier  than  I  can." 

She  soon  washed  the  traces  of  tears  from  her  eyes  and 
muttered:  "I  won't  show  the  white  feather  anyhow,  even 
if  I  haven't  Ann's  Sheba's  comfort  of  being  on  "bation.'  " 
And  she  marched  down  to  dinner  with  the  feeling  of  a 
soldier  who  has  a  campaign  rather  than  a  single  battle 
before  him. 

There  was  a  little  stiffness  at  first;  but  Mrs.  Bodine, 
with  her  fine  tact,  soon  began  to  banish  this,  and  the  old 
lady  was  pleased  that  Ella  seconded  her  efforts  so  readily. 
Bodine  was  a  man  and  a  straightforward  soldier,  honest  in 
his  views  and  actions,  however  mistaken  they  might  be.  He 
had  not  feminine  quickness  in  outward  self-recovery,  and 
the  waves  of  his  strong  feeling  could  only  subside  gradually. 
He  soon  began  to  congratulate  himself,  however,  that  his 
strong  measures  had  led  to  a  most  fortunate  escape,  and  he 
admitted  the  truth  of  his  cousin's  words  that  young  girls 
were  subject  to  sudden  attacks  of  romantic  sentiment  before 
they  were  fairly  launched  into  society. 

As  the  days  passed  these  impressions  were  strengthened, 
for  Ella  appeared  merrier  than  ever  before.  Mrs.  Bodine 
kept  pace  with  her  nonsense  which  at  times  even  verged  on 
audacity,  and  the  veteran  began  to  laugh  as  he  had  done 
before  the  ''Houghton  episode,"  as  he  now  characterized  it 
in  his  mind.  Mrs.  Bodine,  however,  began  to  observe  little 
things  in  Ella  which  troubled  her. 

On  the  morning  following  that  of  Bodine's  dismissal, 
Mara  saw  at  once  from  Ella's  expression  that  something 
unpleasant  had  occurred. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Oh,  we've  had  an  earthquake  at  our  house,"  was  the 
somewhat  bitter  reply.  Fondly  as  she  loved  Mara,  Ella 
stood  in  no  awe  of  her  whatever,  and  her  heart  was  almost 
bursting  from  the  strong  repression  into  which  she  knew 
she  must  school  herself  for  the  sake  of  her  father. 

"Please,  Ella,  don' t  talk  riddles. " 


274  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

*'Well,  papa  and  old  Houghton  have  had  a  regular 
pitched  battle ;  papa  has  been  discharged,  and  is  now  a  gen- 
tleman of  leisure." 

"Shameful!  What  earthly  reason  could  that  old 
wretch — * ' 

*'I'm  the  earthly  reason." 

*'Ella,  don't  tantalize  me." 

*'Well,  that  misguided  little  boy,  who  must  stand  six 
feet  in  his  stockings,  had  the  preposterous  presumption — 
there's  alliteration  for  you,  but  nothing  else  is  equal  to  the 
case — to  ask  papa  if  he  might  pay  his  addresses  to  me. 
Isn't  that  the  conventional  phrase  ?  At  the  bare  thought 
both  of  our  papas  went  off  like  heavy  columbiads,  and  we 
poor  little  children  have  been  blown  into  space." 

*'0h,  Ella!  how  can  you  speak  so!"  cried  Mara  indig- 
nantly. "The  idea  of  associating  your  father  with  that  man 
Houghton  in  your  thoughts!  It  does  indeed  seem  that  no 
one  can  have  anything  to  do  with  such  Yankees  as  come 
to  this  city — " 

"There  now,  Mara,"  said  Ella  a  little  irritably,  "I 
haven't  Aun'  Sheba's  grace  of  self- depreciation.  I  haven't 
been  conjured  into  a  monster  by  Northern  associations,  and 
I  haven't  lost  my  common-sense.  I  don't  associate  papa 
with  old  Houghton,  as  no  one  should  know  better  than 
you.  No  daughter  ever  loved  father  more  than  I  love 
papa.  What's  more,  I've  given  him  a  proof  of  it,  which 
few  daughters  are  called  upon  to  give.  But  I'm  not  a  fool. 
The  same  faculties  which  enable  me  to  know  that  you  are 
Mara  Wallingford  reveal  to  me  with  equal  clearness  that 
papa  and  Mr.  Houghton  have  acted  in  much  the  same  way." 

"Could  you  imagine  for  a  moment  that  your  father  would 
permit  the  attentions  of  that  young  Houghton  ?' ' 

"Certainly  I  could  imagine  it.  If  papa  had  come  to  me 
and  said,  *Ella,  I  have  learned  beyond  doubt  that  Mr. 
Houghton  is  sly,  mean,  unscrupulous,  or  dissipated,'  I 
should  have  dropped  him  as  I  would  a  hot  poker.  Instead 
of  all  this  the  Vandal  goes  to  papa  like  a  gentleman,  tells 


FALSE   SELF-SACRIFICE  275 

him  the  truth,  intrusts  him  with  the  message  of  his  reo-ard 
for  me,  and  promises  that  if  papa  will  tell  me  he  will  not— 
also  promises  that  he  will  not  make  the  slightest  effort  to 
win  my  favor  without  papa's  knowledge.  Then  he  told  his 
own  father  about  his  designs  upon  the  little  baker.  Then 
both  of  our  loving  papas  said  in  chorus  of  us  silly  children, 
'We'll  see  'em  buried  first.'  " 

"I  don't  wonder  your  father  said  so,"  Mara  remarked 
sternly. 

"Well,  I  wonder,  and  I  can't  understand  it,"  cried  Ella, 
bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"There  now,  Ella,"  Mara  began  soothingly,  "you  will 
see  all  in  the  true  light  when  you  have  had  time  to  think 
it  over.  Eemember  how  old  Houghton  is  looked  upon  in 
this  city.  Consider  his  intense  hostility  to  us. ' ' 
"I've  nothing  to  say  for  him,"  sobbed  Ella. 
"Well,  it  would  be  said  that  your  father  had  permitted 
you  to  marry  the  son  of  this  rich  old  extortioner  for  the 
sake  of  his  money.  Your  action  would  throw  discredit  on 
all  your  father's  life  and  devotion  to  a  cause — " 

"Which  is  dead  as  Julius  Caesar,"  Ella  interrupted. 
"But  which  is  as  sacred  to  us,"  continued  Mara  very 
gravely,  "as  the  memory  of  our  loved  and  honored  dead." 
"I  don't  believe  our  loved  and  honored  dead  would  wish 
useless  unhappiness  to  continue  indefinitely.  What  earthly 
good  can  ever  result  from  this  cherished  bitterness  and 
enmity?  Oh,  mamma,  mamma!  I  wish  you  had  lived,  for 
you  would  have  understood  the  love  which  forgives  and 
heals  the  wounds  of  the  past." 

"Ella,  canyon  have  given  your  love  to  this  alien  and 
almost  stranger?" 

"I  have  at  least  given  him  my  respect  and  admiration," 
she  replied,  rising  and  wiping  her  eyes  before  resuming  her 
work.  Suddenly  she  paused,  and  in  a  serio-comic  attitude 
she  pointed  with  the  roller  as  she  said,  "Mara,  suppose  you 
insisted  that  that  kitchen  table  was  a  cathedral,  would  it  be 
a  cathedral  to  me  ?     No  more  so  than  that  vour  indiscrimi- 


276  THE  EARTH    TREMBLED 

nate  prejudices  against  ISTorthern  people  are  grand,  heroic, 
or  based  on  truth.  So  there,  now.  I've  got  to  unburden 
mj  feelings  somewhere;  although  I  expect  sympathy  from 
no  one,  I  believe  in  the  angels'  song  of  'Peace  on  earth 
and  good  will  toward  men.' 

''I  fear  your  good  will  toward  one  man,"  said  Mara,  very 
sadly,  "is  taking  you  out  of  sympathy  with  those  who  love 
you,  and  who  have  the  best  and  most  natural  right  to  your 
love." 

"See  how  mistaken  you  are!  I  shall  never  be  out  of 
sympathy  with  you,  papa,  or  Cousin  Sophy.  But  how  can 
I  sympathize  with  some  of  your  views  when  God  has  given 
me  a  nature  that  revolts  at  them  ?  If  you  ever  love  a  good 
man,  God  and  your  own  heart  will  teach  you  what  a  sacred 
thing  it  is.  What  if  I  am  poor,  and  lacking  in  graces  and 
accomplishments,  I  know  I  have  an  honest,  loving  nature. 
Think  of  that  old  man  Houghton  condemning  and  threaten- 
ing his  son,  as  if  he  had  committed  a  vile  crime  in  his  most 
honorable  intentions  toward  me!  Well,  well,  it's  all  over. 
I've  given  my  word  to  papa  that  I'll  do  nothing  without 
his  consent,  and  he'll  see  me  buried  before  he'll  give  it. 
Don't  you  worry,  I'm  not  going  to  pine  and  live  on  moon- 
shine.    I'll  prove  that  I'm  a  Bodine  in  my  own  way." 

"Yes,  Ella,  you  will,  and  eventually  it  will  be  in  the 
right  way." 

"Mara,  what  I  have  said  is  in  confidence,  and  since  I've 
had  my  say  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 

Mara  was  glad  enough  to  drop  the  subject,  for  Ella  had 
been  saying  things  to  which  her  own  heart  echoed  most  un- 
comfortably. She  and  Mrs.  Hunter  accepted  Mrs.  Bodine's 
invitation  to  dine  that  evening,  and,  in  her  sympathy  for 
Bodine,  was  kinder  to  him  than  ever,  thus  reviving  his 
hopes  and  deepening  his  feelings. 

Time  passed,  bringing  changes  scarcely  perceptible  on 
the  surface,  yet  indicating  to  observant  eyes  concealed  and 
silent  forces  at  work.  And  these  were  observant  eyes; 
Mrs.  Bodine  saw  that  Ella  was  masking  feelings  and  mem- 


FALSE   SELF-SACRIFICE  277 

ories  to  which  no  reference  was  made.  Ella  began  to  ob- 
serve that  her  father's  demeanor  toward  Mara  was  not  the 
same  as  that  by  which  he  manifested  his  affection  for  her. 
"While  she  was  glad  for  his  sake,  and  hoped  that  Mara 
would  respond  favorably,  she  had  an  increased  sense  of  in- 
justice that  he  should  seek  happiness  in  a  way  forbidden 
to  her.  The  thought  would  arise,  "1  am  not  so  much  to 
him  after  all." 

One  day,  near  the  end  of  July,  Ella,  her  father,  Mrs. 
Hunter  and  Mara,  were  on  the  Battery,  sitting  beneath  the 
shade  of  a  live  oak.  The  raised  promenade,  overlooking 
the  water,  was  not  far  away,  and  among  the  passers-by 
Mara  saw  Clancy  and  Miss  Ainsley  approaching.  Appar- 
ently they  were  absorbed  in  each  other,  but,  when  oppo- 
site, Clancy  turned  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  She 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition  nor  did  he.  That  mutual  and 
unobserved  encounter  of  their  eyes  set  its  seal  on  their  last 
interview.     They  were  strangers. 

*' There  goes  a  pair,  billing  and  cooing,"  said  Ella  with 
a  laugh. 

"Mara,  don't  you  feel  well?"  asked  the  captain  anx- 
iously.    ''You  look  very  pale. " 

"I  felt  the  heat  very  much  to-day,"  she  replied  evasively. 
"I  am  longing  for  August  and  rest." 

"Oh,  Mara!  let  us  shut  up  shop  at  once,"  cried  Ella. 
"Papa  is  at  leisure  now  and  we  can  make  little  expeditions 
down  the  bay,  out  to  Summerville  and  elsewhere." 

"No,"  Mara  replied,  "I  would  rather  do  just  what  we 
agreed  upon.     It's  only  a  few  days  now." 

"You  are  as  sot  as  the  everlasting  hills." 

Mara  was  silent,  and  glad  indeed  that  her  quiet  face  gave 
no  hint  of  the  tumult  in  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Hunter's  eyes  were  angrily  following  Clancy  and 
Miss  Ainsley.  "Well,"  she  said,  with  a  scornful  laugh, 
"that  renegade  Southerner  has  found  his  proper  match  in 
that  Yankee  coquette.  I  doubt  whether  he  gets  her  though, 
if  a  man  ever  does  get  a  born  flirt.     When  she's  through 


278  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

with  Charleston  she'll  be  through  with  him,  if  all  I  hear 
of  her  is  true. ' ' 

"Oh,  you're  mistaken,  Mrs.  Hunter,"  Ella  answered. 
"She  fairly  dotes  on  him,  and  if  he  don't  marry  her  he's 
a  worse  flirt  than  she  is.  Think  of  Mr.  Clancy's  blue  blood. 
She  undoubtedly  appreciates  that." 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  that  he  was  a  changeling,  and  that 
old  Colonel  Clancy's  child  was  spirited  away." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Hunter,  but  I  differ  with  you. 
While  I  cannot  share  in  many  of  Mr.  Clancy's  views  and 
affiliations,  he  has  the  reputation  of  being  sincere  and 
straightforward.  Even  his  enemies  must  admit  that  he 
seeks  to  make  his  friendliness  to  the  North  conducive  to 
Southern  interests." 

Mara's  heart  smote  her  that  even  Captain  Bodine  had 
been  fairer  to  Clancy  than  she  had  been. 

Words  rose  to  Ella's  lips,  but  she  repressed  them,  and 
soon  afterward  they  returned  to  their  respective  homes. 

Mara  early  retired  to  the  solitude  of  her  own  room,  for 
that  cold  mutual  glance  on  the  Battery  had  suggested  a  new 
thought  not  yet  entertained.  In  her  mental  excitement  it 
promised  to  banish  the  dreary  stagnation  of  her  life.  She 
must  have  a  motive,  and  if  it  involved  the  very  self-sacrifice 
that  she  had  been  warned  against,  so  much  the  better. 

"It  would  teach  Owen  Clancy  how  futile  were  his  words," 
she  said  to  herself.  "It  would  bring  happiness  to  my 
father's  friend;  it  would  become  a  powerful  incentive  in 
my  own  life,  and,  above  all,  would  compel  me  to  banish  the 
thought  of  one  to  whom  I  have  said  I  will  never  speak 
again. ' ' 

The  more  she  dwelt  upon  this  course,  the  more  clear  it 
became  in  her  warped  judgment  the  one  path  of  escape  from 
an  aimless,  hopeless  existence  fast  becoming  unendurable. 
She  was  not  by  any  means  wholly  selfish  in  reaching  her 
decision,  for  thoughts  of  her  own  need  did  not  predominate, 
"if  I  cannot  be  happy  myself,"  she  reasoned,  "I  can  make 
Captain  Bodine  happy,  for  there  could  not  be  a  more  de- 


FALSE  SELF-SACRIFICE  279 

voted  wife  than  I  will  become,  if  he  puts  into  words  the 
language  of  his  eyes.  Ella  has  already  ceased  to  be  in  true 
sympathy  with  him  in  matters  that  have  made  so  much  of 
the  warp  and  woof  of  his  life.  We  two  are  one  in  these 
respects.  I  can  and  will  cast  out  all  else  if  my  motive  is 
strong  enough." 


280  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

A   SURE   TEST 

CLANCY  had  gone  to  Nature  to  be  calmed  and  healed, 
but  he  had  brought  a  spirit  at  variance  with  her 
teachings.  He  soon  recognized  that  he  was  neither 
receptive  nor  docile.  He  chafed  impatiently  and  angrily  at 
Mara's  obduracy,  which,  nevertheless,  only  increased  his 
love  for  her.  The  deepest  instincts  of  his  nature  made  him 
feel  that  she  belonged  to  him,  and  he  to  her.  The  barrier 
between  them  was  so  intangible  that  he  was  in  a  sort  of 
rage  that  he  could  not  brush  it  aside.  Reflection  always 
brought  him  back  to  the  conviction  that  she  did  love  him. 
Her  passionate  words:  "If  my  heart  break  a  thousand  times 
1  will  never  speak  to  you  again,"  grew  more  and  more  sig- 
nificant. Odd  fancies,  half-waking  dreams  about  her,  pur- 
sued him  into  the  solitude  of  the  forest.  She  seemed  like 
one  imprisoned;  he  could  see,  but  could  not  reach  and  re- 
lease her.  Again  she  was  under  a  strange,  malign  spell, 
which   some   day  might  suddenly   be   broken—broken   all 

too  late. 

Then  she  would  dwell  in  his  thoughts  as  the  victim  of 
a  species  of  moral  insanity  which  might  pass  away.  At 
times  her  dual  life  became  so  clear  to  him  that  he  was 
almost  impelled  to  hasten  back  to  the  city,  in  the  belief 
that  he  could  speak  such  strong,  earnest  words  as  would 
enable  her  to  cast  aside  her  prejudices,  and  break  away 
from  the  influences  which  were  darkening  and  misshaping 
her  life.  Then  he  would  despondently  recall  all  that  he 
had  said  and  done,  and  how  futile  had  been  his  efiort. 


A    SURE    TEST  281 

He  neither  fished  nor  hunted,  but  passed  the  time  either 
in  long  tramps,  or  in  sitting  idly  tormented  by  perturbed 
thoughts.  Believing  that  he  had  reached  a  crisis  in  his  life, 
it  was  his  nature  to  come  to  some  decision.  He  was  essen- 
tially a  man  of  action,  strong-willed  and  resolute.  He 
despised  what  he  termed  weakness,  forgetting  that  the  im- 
pulses of  strength  often  lead  to  error,  for  the  reason  that 
patience  and  fortitude  are  lacking. 

In  facing  the  possibilities  of  the  future,  he  began  to  yield 
to  the  promptings  of  ambition,  a  trait  which  had  no  mean 
place  in  his  character.  ''If  Mara  denies  her  love,  and 
sacrifices  herself  to  Bodine,"  he  reasoned,  ''what  is  there 
left  for  me  but  to  make  the  most  of  my  life  by  attaining 
power  and  influence  ?  I  can  only  put  pleasures  and  excite- 
ments in  the  place  of  happiness.  1  won't  go  through  life 
like  a  winged  bird." 

When  such  thoughts  were  in  the  ascendant,  Miss  Ains. 
ley  presented  herself  to  his  fancy,  alluring,  fascinating, 
beckoning.  She  seemed  the  embodiment  of  that  brilliant 
career  which  he  regarded  as  the  best  solace  he  could  hope 
for.  Often,  however,  he  would  wake  in  the  night,  and, 
from  his  forest  bivouac,  look  up  at  the  stars.  Then  a  calm, 
deep  voice  in  his  soul  would  tell  him  unmistakably  that, 
even  if  he  attained  every  success  that  he  craved,  his  heart 
would  not  be  in  it,  that  he  would  always  hide  the  melan- 
choly of  a  lifelong  disappointment.  All  these  misgivings 
and  compunctions  usually  ended  in  the  thought:  "Caroline 
Ainsley  and  all  that  she  represents  is  the  best  I  can  hope 
for  now.  She  may  be  playing  with  me — I'm  not  sure.  If 
she  will  marry  me,  I  can  probably  give  her  as  true  a  regard 
as  she  will  bestow  upon  me.  She  is  not  a  woman  to  love 
devotedly  and  unselfishly,  not  counting  the  cost.  1  could 
not  marry  such  a  woman,  for  I  feel  it  would  be  base  to  take 
what  I  could  not  return;  but  1  could  marry  her.  I  would 
do  her  no  wrong,  for  I  could  give  to  her  all  the  affection 
to  which  she  is  entitled,  all  that  she  would  actually  care 
for.     If  I  am  mistaken,  I  am  totally  at  fault  in  the  impres- 


282  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

sion  which  she  has  made  upon  me,  and  I  do  not  think  that 
1  am.  I  am  not  in  love  with  her,  and  therefore  am  not 
blind.  She  is  not  in  love  with  me.  It  has  merely  so  hap- 
pened that  I  have  proved  agreeable  to  her,  pleased,  amused, 
and  interested  her.  Possibly  1  have  led  her  to  feel  that  we 
are  so  companionable  that  a  life  journey  together  would 
be  quite  endurable.  My  reason,  all  my  instincts,  assure  me 
that  this  beautiful  girl  has  considered  this  question  more 
than  once  before — that  she  is  considering  it  now,  coolly  and 
deliberately.  I  am  being  weighed  in  the  balances  of  her 
mind,  for  I  do  not  think  she  has  heart  enough  to  enable 
that  organ  to  have  much  voice  in  the  matter.  Her  views 
and  beliefs  are  intellectual.  No  strong,  earnest  feelings 
sway  her.  When  have  her  sympathies  been  touched  in 
behalf  of  any  one  or  any  cause  ?  Oh,  my  rare  beauty !  I 
am  not  blind.  Selfishness  is  the  mainspring  of  your  char- 
acter; but  it  is  a  selfishness  so  refined,  so  rational  and 
amenable  to  the  laws  of  good  taste,  that  it  can  be  calculated 
upon  with  almost  mathematical  accuracy.  You  are  no  saint, 
bat  a  saint  might  be  beguiled  into  faults  which  to  you  are 
impossible.  You  are  a  fit  bride  for  ambition,  and  would  be 
its  crown  and  glory. ' ' 

Such  was  often  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts,  and  ambition 
suggested  the  many  doors  to  advancement  which  such  an 
alliance  would  open.  Mr.  Ainsley  was  not  only  a  man  of 
wealth,  but  also  of  large,  liberal  ideas.  It  certainly  would 
be  a  pleasure  and  a  constant  exhilaration  to  aid  him  in 
carrying  out  his  great  enterprises. 

Thus  Clancy,  as  well  as  Mara,  was  led  by  disappoint- 
ment in  his  dearest  hope  of  happiness  to  seek  what  next 
promised  best  in  his  estimation  to  redeem  life  from  a  dreary 
monotony  of  negations.  He  also  resolved  to  have  motives 
and  incentives;  nor  was  his  ambition  purely  selfish,  for  he 
purposed  to  use  whatever  power,  wealth  and  influence  he 
might  obtain  for  the  benefit  of  the  people  among  whom 
he  dwelt.  Hers,  however,  was  the  nobler  motive,  and  the 
less  selfish,  for  it  involved  self-sacrifice,  even  though  it  was 


A    SURE   TEST  283 

mistaken,  and  could  lead  only  to  wrong  action.  It  would 
cost  him  nothing  to  carry  out  his  large,  beneficent  purposes. 
Indeed,  they  would  add  to  his  pleasures  and  enhance  his 
reputation.  She  was  but  a  woman,  and  saw  no  other  path 
of  escape  from  the  conditions  of  her  lot  except  the  thorny 
one  of  self-abnegation. 

Alternately  cast  down,  and  fired  by  conflicting  thoughts 
and  purposes,  Clancy  soon  discovered  that  the  woods  was 
no  place  for  him,  and  he  resolved  to  return  to  the  city, 
there  to  be  guided  by  the  circumstances  of  the  next  few 
weeks.  If  it  became  clear  that  Mara  had  not  been  influ- 
enced by  his  warning,  but  on  the  contrary  was  accepting 
Bodine's  attentions,  then  he  would  face  the  truth  that  she 
was  lost  to  him  beyond  hope.  Without  compunction  he 
would  turn  to  Miss  Ainsley,  and,  with  all  the  wariness 
and  penetration  which  he  could  exercise,  seek  to  discover 
how  far  she  would  go  with  him  in  his  life  campaign  to 
achieve  eminence.  He  was  glad,  however,  that  he  did  not 
regard  her  as  essential  to  his  plans  and  hopes.  Indeed,  he 
had  the  odd  feeling  that  even  if  she  rejected  him  as  a  hus- 
band, he  could  shake  hands  with  her  and  say:  "Very  well, 
Ainsley,  we  can  be  good  comrades  just  the  same.  We  amuse 
and  interest  each  other,  we  mutually  stimulate  our  mental 
faculties.     Let  it  end  here." 

In  this  mood  he  fulfilled  his  promise  and  wrote  as  fol- 
lows: 

**Mt  dear  Ainsley — Permit  me  to  remind  you  of  my  existence — if  one 
can  be  said  to  exist  in  these  wilds.  An  expedition  of  this  kind  is  a  good  thing 
for  a  fellow  occasionally.  It  enables  him  to  get  acquainted  with  himself,  to 
indulge  in  egotism  without  being  a  nuisance.  I  have  neither  hunted,  fished, 
nor  studied  the  natives.  I  have  not  seen  a  "mountain  maid"  whose  embrace 
I  would  prefer  to  that  of  a  bear.  I  have  merely  tramped  aimlessly  about,  mean- 
while learning  that  I  am  not  adapted  to  communion  with  nature.  At  this  mo- 
ment I  should  prefer  smoking  a  cigar  with  you  on  the  balcony  to  looking  at 
scenery  which  should  inspire  artist  and  poet.  I  am  neither,  merely  a  man 
of  afEairs.  Humanity  interests  me  more  than  oaks,  however  gigantic.  You 
see  I  have  no  soul,  no  heart,  no  soaring  imagination.  I  am  as  matter-of-fact 
a  fellow  as  you  are.     That's  why  we  get  on  so  well  together.     We  can  chaff, 


284  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

spar,  and  run  intellectual  tilts  as  amicably  as  any  two  men  in  town.  This 
proves  you  to  be  quite  exceptional — delightfully  so.  I'm  not  surprised,  how- 
ever, for,  as  I  have  said  to  you,  you  are  sated  with  the  other  kind  of  thing. 
How  long  will  this  fancy  last  ?  Now  that  you  are  so  manly  you  should  not 
be  fickle.  You  have  not  half  comprehended  the  penalties  of  your  new  rdZe, 
for  you  may  find  that  it  involves  a  distressing  frankness.  I  think  I  had  better 
close.  Letter-writing  pre-supposes  literary  qualities  which  I  do  not  possess. 
Men,  unless  sentimentally  inclined,  or  given  to  hobbies,  rarely  write  long  let- 
ters  to  each  other.  If  unusually  congenial  they  can  talk  together  as  long  as 
women.  I  do  not  know  of  a  man  in  town  who  can  equal  you  as  good  com- 
pany; and  with  this  fact  in  mind,  I  shall  atone  for  a  brief  letter  by  putting 
in  an  appearance  at  an  early  dale.  If  you  have  had  any  flirtations  in  my 
absence  I  shall  expect  all  the  details.  You  know  I  do  not  care  for  such  trivial 
amusements.  In  this  material  age,  making  the  world  move  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness affords  ample  scope  for  my  limited  faculties,  while  a  chat  with  you  is 
better  than  a  game  of  chess  in  the  way  of  recreation,  better  than  moping  in 
the  woods.  Your  friend,  Clancy." 

He  had  barely  time  to  post  the  letter  before  the  mail- 
stage  left  the  little  hamlet  in  which  it  was  written.  He  was 
soon  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  the  missive,  and  regretted 
having  written  it  Before  an  hour  had  passed  he  muttered: 
**I  never  wrote  such  a  letter  to  a  woman  before,  and  I  won't 
again.  I  put  myself  in  the  worst  light,  in  fact  was  unjust 
to  myself.  How  differently  I  would  write  to  Mara!  Is  it 
the  difference  in  women  which  inevitably  inspires  different 
thought  and  action?  At  any  rate,  there  is  a  touch  of  coarse- 
ness in  this  masculine  'persiflage  which  grates.  When  I  re- 
turn we  must  become  friends  as  man  and  woman.  I  wonder 
if  she  will  feel  as  I  do  about  it?" 

Miss  Ainsley  was  not  satisfied  with  the  letter  at  all, 
one  reason  being  that  it  revealed  too  much  penetration 
on  Clancy's  part.  While  she  welcomed  him  w^ith  her  old 
cordiality  she  took  him  to  -task  at  once. 

**This  is  a  spurious  letter,"  she  said,  holding  it  up. 
*' You  would  never  write  such  an  affair  to  a  male  friend. 
You  betrayed  a  consciousness  of  my  femininity  in  every 
line.  You  preached  to  me  and  warned  me  with  the  same 
penful  of  ink.  You  write  as  if  you  were  a  commonplace 
male  cynic,  and  I  a  woman  who  was  trying  to  unsex  her- 


A    SURE    TEST  285 

self  by  a  lot  of  ridiculous  affectations.  I  wished  a  genial, 
jolly  letter  such  as  you  might  write  to  an  old  college 
chum. ' ' 

"Do  you  know  the  reason  why  I  did  not,  rather  could 
not,  write  such  a  letter  ?' ' 

"No." 

"Because  you  are  not  an  old  college  chum." 

' '  I  was  not  aware  that  you  were  so  tremendously  sincere. ' ' 

"I'm  not  tremendously  sincere — not  tremendous  in  any 
grand  sense  of  the  word,  but  I've  learned  that  I  can  be  tre- 
mendously awkward  in  a  false  position.  It  is  absurd  of  you 
to  fancy  that  I  can  think  of  you  in  any  other  light  than  that 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  gifted  with  more  than  your  share  of 
intellect.  I  prefer  that  our  friendship  should  rest  on  this 
obvious  fact.  We  are  too  old  'to  make  believe,'  as  chil- 
dren say.  I  came  to  this  conclusion  within  an  hour  after 
I  wrote  the  letter. ' ' 

"  Oh ,  you  dashed  it  off  hastily,  without  giving  it  thought  ?" 

"I've  given  you  two  thoughts  to  your  one,"  he  replied, 
laughing  lightly. 

"And  none  of  them  very  complimentary,  judging  from 
the  letter."     And  she  impatiently  tore  it  up. 

"That's  right.     Put  it  out  of  existence." 

"I  almost  wish  I  had  kept  it  as  documentary  evidence 
against  you,"  she  remarked. 

"Oh,  come!  Friends  do  not  wish  evidence  against,  but 
for  each  other.     I  could  remain  away  scarcely  a  week." 

"From  business,  yes." 

"Or  from  my  most  delightful  recreation;  yes." 

"You  find  me  very  amusing  then." 

"I  do  indeed,  and  interesting  also.  I  am  quite  certain 
that  your  society  gives  me  far  more  pleasure  than  mine  af- 
fords you. ' ' 

"Since  I  am  relegated  to  woman's  sphere  I  certainly  shall 
not  protest  against  that  belief.  I  am  now  under  no  bonds 
to  be  distressingly  frank." 

"You  never  would   have  been   any  franker  than   you 


286  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

wished  to  be.  For  the  manifestation  of  that  trait  I  shall 
have  to  depend  on  something  very  different. " 

*' And  what  may  that  be?" 

**Why,  simply  the  quality  of  your  friendship." 

'*I  am  satisfied  that  mine  compares  very  favorably  with 
yours." 

*'In  both  instances  neither  of  us  can  escape  one  sure  test. " 

'' Indeed!     What  test?" 

"That  of  time,"  he  replied,  smiling  significantly.  *'Good- 
by.  I'm  quite  sure  that  your  regard  will  survive  till  to-mor- 
row afternoon  when  we  are  to  take  a  sail  in  the  harbor,  so  Mrs. 
Willoughby  has  informed  me." 

Miss  Ainsley  gave  a  little  complacent  nod  in  his  direc- 
tion as  he  disappeared,  and  thought,  '* Since  you  are  so  con- 
tent and  agreeable  as  a  friend  merely,  I'm  half -inclined  to 
keep  you  as  such,  and  marry  some  one  else." 


BITTERNESS   MUST   BE   CHERISHED'*  287 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 
"bitterness  must  be  cherished" 

To  all  appearance  the  long  hot  days  of  August  were 
passing  very  uneventfully  to  the  characters  of  our 
story.  The  cold  look  which  Clancy  received  froni 
Mara  on  the  Battery,  together  with  the  fact  that  Bodine 
appeared  more  lover-like  than  ever,  speedily  satisfied  him 
that  his  best  resource  was  the  ambitious  career  which  in 
his  absence  be  had  accepted  in  the  place  of  happiness.  He 
therefore  gave  himself  up  quite  unreservedly  to  Miss  Ains- 
ley's  fascinations,  and,  with  all  the  skill  and  energy  he 
possessed,  seconded  her  father's  business  enterprises.  Mr. 
Ainsley  was  sometimes  in  town,  and  again  absent,  as  his 
business  interests  required;  for  he  was  one  of  those  inde- 
fatigable men  who,  with  soldier- like  energy  and  fearless- 
ness, carry  out  their  plans,  regardless  of  discomfort  or 
danger.  He  recognized  the  fact  that  Clancy  was  both 
capable  and  useful,  and  was  already  inclined  to  make  him 
one  of  his  chief  lieutenants  in  the  South.  He  understood 
the  young  man's  relations  to  his  daughter  perfectly,  and 
was  not  at  all  averse  to  a  union  between  them.  At  the 
same  time,  he  knew  how  problematical  Caroline's  action 
would  be,  and  that  it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  appear 
for  or  against  the  match.  He  was  aware  of  his  daughter's 
attitude  in  regard  to  marriage,  and  also  convinced  that  she 
would  take  her  own  course. 

It  would  seem  that  she  was  taking  no  course  whatever  at 
present,  but  indolently  and  complacently  letting  matters 
drift.     She  sometimes  smilingly  thought,  "I  scarcely  know 


288  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

whether  Mr.  Clancy  is  friend  or  lover.  I  suppose  I  could 
lead  him  to  be  more  pronounced  in  either  character  if  I 
chose,  but  since  he  is  so  agreeable  as  he  is,  I  would  be  a 
fool  not  to  keep  everything  in  statu  quo  till  I  wish  a  change. 
Life  is  too  long  to  give  up  a  pleasure  before  you  are  through 
with  it." 

Clancy  quietly  studied  her  mood,  and  was  in  no  greater 
hurry  than  herself.  Indeed,  both  felt  that  they  had  arrived 
at  a  comparatively  clear  mutual  understanding,  and  so  were 
quite  at  their  ease,  she  enjoying  his  society  abundantly,  and 
he  hers,  as  far  as  his  bitter  memories  would  permit. 

Quick  of  apprehension,  Bodine  soon  perceived  a  change 
in  Mara's  attitude  toward  him,  but  was  considerate  in  avail- 
ing himself  of  such  slight  encouragement  as  she  gave.  He 
had  been  taught  by  her  manner  that  her  first  feeling  on  the 
discovery  of  a  warmer  regard  than  she  had  expected  was 
that  of  repulsion.  He  now  believed  that  she  had  thought 
the  matter  over,  and  was  learning  that  it  might  not  be  im- 
possible to  regard  him  in  a  new  and  different  light.  Long 
since  the  ardor  of  youth  had  passed,  and  he  was  disposed 
to  allow  her  time  to  become  accustomed  to  the  thought  of 
wifehood.  In  the  meantime  he  put  forth  every  effort  to 
prove  himself  companionable,  in  spite  of  their  disparity  in 
age.  It  was  not  his  delicate  and  thoughtful  attentions, 
however,  which  reconciled  her  to  the  future  that  she  had 
accepted,  but  rather  the  motives  already  revealed.  Under 
the  influence  of  these,  a  certain  species  of  mental  excite- 
ment had  been  evoked.  She  had  not  ceased  to  suffer,  but 
she  had  ceased  merely  to  exist. 

There  was  something  now  to  look  forward  to,  sacred  du- 
ties to  anticipate,  and  a  future  which  was  not  a  blank.  She 
believed  that  in  giving  help  and  happiness  to  another  she 
would  more  surely  trample  on  self,  and  make  it  the  vantage- 
ground  for  a  greater  devotion  than  that  of  most  women  whose 
love  is  often  partly  self-love.  In  regarding  her  first  pure 
love  and  all  its  promptings  as  the  phase  of  self  to  be  de- 
stroyed, she  was  committing  her  fatal  error;    and  of  this 


*' BITTERNESS    MUST  BE    CHERISHED''  289 

error,  not  only  Clancy's  words,  but  also  her  own  heart, 
often  warned  her.  But  she  was  not  one  to  turn  back,  hav- 
ing once  resolved  upon  a  course. 

She  had  far  too  much  delicacy  and  maidenly  pride  to 
suggest  consciously  to  Bodine  the  nature  of  her  thoughts, 
but  she  was  willing  that  he  should  see  that  she  no  longer 
shrank  outwardly  from  his  occasional  manifestations  of  a 
tenderer  regard  than  he  bestowed  upon  Ella.  That  some- 
thing in  her  woman's  nature  beyond  her  control  did  shrink 
and  plead  for  escape,  she  knew  well;  but  to  conquer  this  in- 
stinctive aversion  was  a  part  of  the  task  which  she  had  set 
for  herself. 

Not  only  quick-witted  Ella,  but  also  Mrs.  Bodine  and 
Mrs.  Hunter,  saw  the  drift  of  affairs,  and  gave  their  unhesi- 
tating approval.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  glad,  because  it  would 
destroy  Clancy's  prospects  forever,  and  prove  a  sort  of  tri- 
umph over  him.  Then  it  was,  as  she  assured  Mara  one 
day,  "eminently  fitting.  Your  father  and  mother  would 
both  approve." 

"That  thought  comes  to  me,  too,"  calmly  rejoined  the 
girl.  "I  hope  they  will — 1  thiak  they  will.  But  let  us  not 
talk  further  till  all  is  settled." 

Mrs.  Bodine  believed  the  marriage  would  result  well  on 
other  grounds.  "Cousin  Hugh,"  she  said  one  day  when 
they  were  alone,  "you  may  shut  me  up  if  I  am  meddling, 
but  you  are  not  thinking  of  Mara  in  the  same  way  that  you 
did  in  the  spring." 

"I  admit  it,  Cousin  Sophy,  and  you  need  not  shut  up." 

"Well,  I  reckon  it  will  come  about.  On  general  prin- 
ciples I  don't  approve  of  such  marriages,  but  I  suppose 
there  are  exceptions  to  most  rules.  As  I  have  said  to  you 
before,  Mara  is  as  old  in  her  feelings  as  you  are,  and  I  think 
you  will  be  happier  together  than  you  would  be  apart.  I 
never  understood  Mara  altogether;  but  of  one  thing  I  am 
certain,  she  must  have  some  strong  motive,  something  or 
some  person  for  whom  she  can  sacrifice  herself;  and,  being 
a  woman,  she  would  have  a  good  deal  better  time  sacrificing 

M— Roe— XV^ 


290  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

herself  to  a  man  than  to  anything  else;"  and  the  old  lady 
chirped  her  little  complacent  laugh. 

''Rest  assured,"  said  the  veteran,  "I  don't  want  any  self- 
sacrifice  in  Mara's  case." 

"Of  course  not;  nor  do  I.  I  wouldn't  approve  of  any 
actual  self-sacrifice,  but  Mara  will  try  to  come  as  near  it  as 
she  can.  I  reckon  she'd  be  more  drawn  toward  a  cripple  like 
you  than  the  handsomest  young  fellow  in  town,  on  general 
principles;  and  then  she  has  been  interested  in  you  from 
the  first,  because  you,  in  a  peculiar  sense,  represent  to  her 
the  past,  which  has  been  almost  her  only  inheritance." 

"I  confess  that  I  have  indulged  in  the  same  thoughts 
which  you  express.  God  grant  that  we  both  are  right! 
She  has  become  strangely  dear  to  me.  Once  I  could  never 
have  imagined  it  at  my  time  of  life." 

"Oh,    the  heart  needn't  grow   old,"    was  the  laughing 

reply. 

The  captain's  outlook  was  rendered  more  favorable  by 
the  reception  of  a  note  which  contained  the  offer  of  a  better 
position  than  that  held  in  the  employ  of  the  detested  Mr. 
Houghton.  When  he  investigated  the  matter  he  learned 
that  the  offer  came  largely  through  the  influence  of  Clancy, 
and  this  last  confirmed  the  veteran's  impression  that  the 
young  man  was  using  his  influence  and  prosperity  for  the 
benefit  of  the  South. 

To  Mara  it  was  a  bitter  ordeal  to  listen  to  Bodine's  com- 
placent explanation  of  the  affair,  and  she  was  glad  that  she 
was  told  in  the  dusky  twilight,  which  concealed  an  expres- 
sion of  pain  even  beyond  her  control.  Words  of  passionate 
protest  rose  to  her  very  lips,  but  she  remembered  in  time 
that  they  would  involve  revelations  which  would  thwart  her 
purpose  to  make  him  happy  at  every  cost  to  herself.  If  he 
ever  learned  what  Clancy  had  been  to  her,  what  he  was  at 
this  agonized  moment,  her  vocation,  if  not  gone,  would  be 
impaired  beyond  remedy.  Afterward,  in  the  solitude  of 
her  own  room,  she  accepted  this  bitter  experience,  as  she 
had  resolved  to  accept  all  others,  as  a  part  of  her  lot. 


''BITTERNESS   MUST   BE    CHERISHED''  291 

In  her  morbidness  she  became  Jesuitical.  Her  father's 
old  friend  should  be  made  as  happy  as  it  was  in  her  power 
to  render  him.  Whatever  interfered  with  this  purpose 
should  be  concealed  or  trampled  upon.  Of  Clancy  she  said 
bitterly,  "If  he  thinks  he  has  been  magnanimous,  how  little 
he  understands  me." 

Clancy's  motives  had  been  somewhat  mixed.  He  was 
willing  that  her  pride  should  be  rebuked  and  wounded,  and 
he  also  wished  her  to  know  that  he  was  above  the  petty  re- 
sentment of  jealousy. 

Poor  Ella  felt  that  she  was  becoming  isolated;  an  im- 
pression, however,  which  she  would  not  have  had  were  it 
not  for  her  recent  experiences.  Had  her  heart  remained  as 
light  and  untouched  as  it  was  when  we  first  met  her,  her 
pleasure  over  her  father's  prospects  would  have  been  unal- 
loyed. Even  now  her  satisfaction  was  deep  and  sincere, 
but  it  was  not  in  human  nature  to  forget  how  summarily  she 
had  been  denied  the  happiness  so  sweet  to  those  of  her  age. 
She  felt,  however,  that  all  were  against  her;  that  even  kind 
old  Mrs.  Bodine  would  not  listen  patiently  to  her  thoughts. 
So  she  kept  them  to  herself,  and  sought  by  forced  mirthful- 
ness  to  disguise  them.  She  talked  and  laughed  with  the 
young  men  who  called  upon  her,  and  they  came  in  increas- 
ing numbers  as  inevitably  as  a  flower  attracts  the  bees. 
She  was  the  life  of  the  "family  excursions,"  as  she  charac- 
terized in  her  thoughts  those  in  which  Mara  and  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter had  a  part;  and  she  joined  others  of  which  her  father 
approved,  but  there  was  often  trouble  and  sadness  in  her 
eyes,  and  her  cheeks  and  form  were  losing  their  roundness 
of  outline.  Mrs.  Bodine  was  not  deceived.  She  noted 
everything  silently,  and  thought,  "She  is  making  a  brave 
fight;  she  must  make  a  brave  fight.  There  is  no  other 
course  for  her.  I  reckon  she'll  win  it,  as  many  a  girl  has 
before. ' ' 

The  old  lady  was  thoughtful,  kind,  and  very  attentive. 
At  the  same  time,  with  the  nicest  tact,  she  infused  a  firm- 
ness and  spirit  into  her  demeanor  which  made  the  girl  feel 


292  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

that  her  cousin  had  sympathy  only  with  the  effort  to  con- 
quer or  forget.  And  she  honestly  made  such  effort,  but 
was  often  aghast  at  its  futility.  In  her  brusque  way  she 
said  to  herself,  "What's  the  use  of  trying?  It  seems  like 
a  disease  which  must  run  its  course  till  old  Father  Time 
brings  some  sort  of  a  cure." 

One  day  she  went  to  see  Aun'  Sheba,  and  found  the  old 
woman  feeling  poorly. 

"Yes,  honey,"  she  said,  "bein'  lazy  doan  'gree  wid 
me    'tall.      I    doan    see    how    Unc.    Stan's   it   all   de   yeah 

roun'." 

"I  hab  de  rheumatiz,"   Uncle  Sheba  remarked  in  the 

way  of  explanation. 

"Now,  Unc,  dat  ar  rheumatiz  is  like  de  scapegoat  in  de 
Bible.  You  loads  it  up  with  all  you  sins.  We  all  hope 
dat  w  n  you  got  so  sot  on  dat  you'd  turn  ober  a  new  leaf. 
How  you  Stan'  it  sittin'  roun'  all  day  I  doan  see,  no  how. 
I'se  gettin'  so  heaby  an'  logy  an'  oncomf'ble  dat  I'se  gwine 
ter  take  in  washin'  de  rest  ob  de  month." 

"I'd  be  glad  to  go  to  work  to-morrow,  too,"  said  Ella. 
"I'd  be  glad  of  anything  to  make  the  time  pass." 

"Why,  honey,  wot  you  want  de  time  to  pass  quick  fer? 
You  oaghter  be  like  de  hummin'-bird,  gederin  sweets  all  de 

day." 

"I  feel  more  like  a  croaking  raven." 

"You'se  quar,  Missy  Ella.  You'se  up  an'  you'se  down, 
an'  you  doan  know  why.  Ole  Hannah  dat  lib  wid  you  says 
dat  you'se  gittin'  a  lot  ob  beaux.  Why,  you  eben  make 
a  'pression  on  dat  big,  'ansome  Northern  chap,  ole  Hough- 
ton's son,  wen  you  doan  know  it.  More'n  once  he  ax  me 
which  de  cakes  you  make,  an'  wen  I  tell  him,  he  wanter  buy 
demall." 

"That's  very  funny,"  Ella  said,  and  there  was  the  old 
mirthful  ring  in  her  laugh. 

"You  know  him?"  Aun'  Sheba  asked,  quickly. 

"I  met  him  at  Mrs.  Willoughby's. " 

"Shuah  now!     Dat  counts  fer  it.     Well,  he'd  gobble  all 


''BITTERNESS   MUST   BE    CHERISHED"  293 

you'se  cake  if  I'd  let  him,  but  I  had  oder  cus'mers  on  my 
min' ;  an'  he  seem  ter  hab  on'y  you  on  his  min'." 

' '  You  were  very  wise,  Aun'  Sheba.     So  much  cake  would 

have  made  him  ill,"  and  she  still  laughed  joyously. 
"  'Pears  to  me  you'se  gittin'   betteh.  Missy  Ella." 
"Oh,  yoa  always  make  me  laugh  and  hearten  me  up, 

Aun'  Sheba." 

''Well,  who'd  a  tink  dat  ar  civil,  nice  spoken  young  man 

was  de  son  ob  dat  ole  sinner  Houghton.     Eeckon  Missy  Mara 

doan  like  you'se  talkin'  wid  him  at  Mis  Wil'by's. " 

"Of  course  not.     He's  a  Northern  Vandal,  you  know." 
"Dunno  notin'  '  bout  Wandals.    I  jedge  folks  by  wot  dey 

is  deysefs.     He  couldn't  help  bein'  bawn  at  de  Nori     Long 

as  he  'habe  himself,  wot  dat  agin  him?" 

"Being  born  at  the  North  is  a  crime,  some  people  think." 
"Yes,  I  know,  but  dat  ar  suttingly  fool  talk.     Dat  ain't 

de  trouble  so  much  in  dis  case.     It's  cause  he's  dat  ole 

'tankerous  Houghton's  son." 

"He  isn't  to  blame  for  that  either,"  Ella  answered,  hotly, 

"Lor',  Missy  Ella!  how  you  stan'  up  fer  'im," 

"I  don't  believe  in  injustice,  Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Ella 

quietly,  conscious  meanwhile  that  her  cheeks  were  getting 

very  red. 

"De  heat  am  po'ful,"   Aun'   Sheba  remarked,  senten- 

tiously.     Then  her  plump  form  began  to  shake  with  mirth. 

"Dar  now,  Missy  Ella,"  she  added,   "de  blin'  ole  woman 

kin  see  as  fur  in  de  grin-stone  as  de  next  one.     He'd  stan' 

up  fer  you  agin  de  hull  worl.     It  shines  right  out  in  his 

'ansome  face." 

"How  very  blind  you  are,  Aun'  Sheba!     Why,  he's  not 

fit  to  be  spoken  to,  and  I'm  not  to  speak  to  him  again  as 
'long  as  I  live.     Good-by.     Good-by,   Uncle  Sheba.     I've 

heard  that  sawing  wood  was  the  best  cure  for  rheumatism 

known;"  and  she  flitted  out  of  the  dusky  cabin  like  a  trop- 
ical bird. 

Aun'    Sheba   still   laughed   to   herself,    and   remarked, 
"Unc,  s'pose  you  try  Missy  Ella's  cure?" 


294  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

''Wot  she  know  'bout  it?"  growled  Uncle  Sheba,  with 
an  injured  aspect.  "Wot  de  use  ob  sawin'  wood  all  day 
wen  de  town  hot  'nuff  now  to  roas'  lobsters  ?" 

"Dat  min's  me,  Unc.  Why  don'  you  took  ter  some  sit- 
tin'  wuck  like  fishin'  in  de  harbor  ?  Yon  mought  catch  a 
lobster,  or  some  oder  fish." 

"De  fish  an'  me  'ud  bof  be  briled  in  dis  yere  sun  'fore 
we  got  home." 

"Dar,  Unc,  you  wouldn't  go  to  Heben  'less  you  was 
toted." 

"Ob  cose  not.  Doan  de  Bible  say  de  angels  gwine  ter 
tote  us?" 

"Well,  I  s'pose  dey  is. — Ef  a  body  ony  know'd  weder  it 
ud  be  up  or  down." 

"Dar  now,  Aun'  Sheba,  wot  fei  you  talk  so  se'rus  in 
Augst?  Nex'  winter  we'se  gwine  ter  hab  a  refreshin'  from 
on  high." 

"P'raps  you  won'  lib  till  nex'  winter,  Unc." 

Uncle  Sheba  began  to  hitch  uneasily,  and  remarked,  "1 
doan  see  no  use  ob  sech  oncomf'ble  talk  in  de  restin'  time 
ob  de  yeah. ' ' 

Aun'  Sheba  soon  forgot  him  in  her  unspoken  thoughts 
of  Ella  and  young  Houghton. 

"I  begins  ter  unerstan'  dat  leetle  gal  now,  an'  all  her 
goins  on — puttin'  awspice  in  de  cake  twice,  an'  say  in'  quar 
tings.  Well,  well,  I  knows  dey's  all  agin  her,  po'  chile. 
Wot  foolishness  it  all  am!  I  once  Jam  my  han'  in  de  do' 
— s'pose  I  went  on  jamin'  for  eber.  Der's  no  use  ob  der 
lookin'  glum  at  me,  fer  dat  young  man's  gwine  ter  hab  all 
her  cakes  he  wants.  I  won'er  if  Missy  Mara  got  de  same 
'plaint  as  Missy  Ella.  She  bery  deep,  an'  won'  let  on,  eben 
ter  her  ole  nuss.  Pears  ter  me  de  cap'n's  gittin'  kiner  lop- 
sided toward  her,  but  1  don'  belibe  dat'll  wuck." 

Ella  was  both  gladdened  and  saddened  by  her  visit. 
Houghton's  buying  her  cake  was  one  of  those  little  homely 
facts  OD  which  love  delights  to  dwell;  for  the  heart  instinc- 
tively knows  that  genuine  love  permeates  the  whole  being. 


*' BITTERNESS    MUST   BE    CHERISHED"  295 

prompting  to  thoughtf ulness  in  small  matters  which  indiffer- 
ence overlooks.  She  could  not  but  be  glad  that  he  had 
seemed  to  have  "on'j  you  on  his  min'  ";  and  then  she 
grieved  that  all  which  was  coming  about  so  naturally,  like 
a  spring  growth,  should  have  been  harshly  smitten  by  the 
black  frost  of  prejudice  and  hate. 

After  an  early  dinner  that  evening  her  father  asked  her 
kindly  to  go  with  him  and  Mara  to  the  Battery;  but  she 
declined,  saying  she  would  rather  keep  Mrs.  Bodine  com- 
pany. He  did  not  urge  her;  and  he  had  been  so  preoccu- 
pied by  his  thoughts  as  not  to  observe  that  she  was  pale  and 
dejected,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  appear  as  usual. 

When  alone  Mrs.  Bodine  said,  ''You  should  have  gone, 
Ella.  You  need  the  fresh  cool  air  from  the  water.  Why 
didn't  you  go?" 

*'0h!"  said  the  girl,  in  assumed  lightness  of  tone,  "three 
is  sometimes  a  crowd." 

"You  shouldn't  feel  that  way,  Ella.  You  would  never 
be  a  crowd." 

"You  are  forgetting  your  old  experiences,  Cousin 
Sophy." 

"No,  I'm  not.     So  you  see  whither  affairs  are  tending  ?" 

"Oh,  cousin!     Am  I  a  bat?" 

"I  hope  you  are  not  averse." 

"No,  Cousin  Sophy,  I  would  do  anything,  and  suffer 
much,  to  make  papa  happy.  You  know  how  I  love  Mara, 
though  we  disagree  on  many  points;  and  if  she  and  papa 
would  be  happier —  Oh!  why  can't  I  be  happy,  too?" 
and  she  gave  way  to  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

"We  all  wish  you  to  be  happy,  Ella,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine, 
soothingly. 

"Yes,  in  your  own  way,"  she  replied,  brokenly.  "What 
happened  before  I  was  born  must  be  considered  first.  If 
love  is  sweet  to  papa  at  his  age  think  what  it  is  to  me  ?" 

"You  must  not  imagine,  Ella  dear,  that  we  don't  feel 
with  you  and  for  you.  1  am  proud  of  you  as  I  watch  your 
brave  fight  in  which  you  will  conquer." 


296  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Why  should  I  conqaer  when  my  heart  tells  me  that  the 
one  I  love  is  worthy  of  my  love  ?  It  hurts  me,  it  wounds 
my  very  soul,  that  he  and  I  should  be  spoken  to  as  if  we 
had  committed  a  crime.  How  could  my  love  be  so  sacred 
and  heavenly  if  it  were  wrong?  Oh,  how  I  hate,  hate  I 
There  is  nothing  so  hateful  as  hate." 

"But,  Ella,  you  don't  consider  all — " 

"There  is  no  need  of  considering  all.  Cousin  Sophy. 
There  are  some  things  which  stand  out  so  clearly  that  all 
else  is  insignificant.  Mr.  Houghton  hates  papa  and  me. 
Does  papa  love  him  or  his  son  ?  You  know  me,  faulty, 
foolish  little  girl  that  I  am;  but  think  of  that  man  raging 
at  his  son  because  he  dared  to  love  me!  If  George  had 
committed  a  crime  his  father  would  have  spent  a  fortune  in 
defending  him.  To  love  me  was  worse  than  a  crime.  He 
would  have  been  turned  into  the  streets.  Oh,  it's  all  so 
unjust,  it's  ail  the  spawn  of  hate!" 

Mrs.  Bodine  was  aghast  at  the  intensity  of  the  girl's  feel- 
ings,  but  could  only  say,  "Well,  Ella,  dear,  since  things  are 
as  they  are  you  must  fight  it  out.  Trust  the  experience  of 
an  old  woman.  Marriages  in  the  face  of  such  bitter  opposi- 
tion are  rarely  happy." 

' '  Yes,  the  bitterness  must  be  sacredly  cherished,  whatever 
else  is  lost.  Oh,  I  know.  Cousin  Sophy,  I  know  I  must 
fight  it  out  if  it  takes  my  lifetime,  and  all  the  while  know 
that  God  would  bless  our  love  if  hate  hadn't  blighted  it." 


NOBLE   REVENGE  2d7 


CHAPTER   XXXy 

NOBLE   REVENGE 

GEORGE  HOUGHTON  took  to  the  mountain  soli- 
tudes a  better  and  purer  spirit  than  Clancy,  who 
was  so  ready  to  be  consoled  by  ambition  and  the 
fascinations  of  a  woman  incapable  of  evoking  the  best  in 
his  nature.  The  young  fellow  did  fish  and  hunt  with  tire- 
less energy,  and  many  a  humble  cabin  was  stocked  with 
provisions  by  his  exertions.  Believing  that  not  only  Bo- 
dine,  but  also  that  Ella  herself,  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him,  his  afEectionate  nature  turned  to  his  father.  With 
a  large  charity  he  tried  to  forget  the  stern  words  which  had 
sorely  wounded  him,  and  only  to  remember  the  influences 
on  his  father's  life  which  had  led  to  their  utterance.  He 
recalled  the  abundant  proofs  of  his  kindness  and  liberality; 
and,  now  that  his  young  dream  was  over,  he  purposed  to 
carry  out  the  old  man's  schemes  as  best  he  could. 

He  tired  himself  out  through  the  long  hot  days,  and  slept 
at  night  from  exhaustion.  The  time  thus  passed  until  he 
felt  that  he  had  the  strength  to  return  to  the  city,  and  act 
as  if  Ella  did  not  dwell  there.  He  also  thought  of  his 
father's  need  of  help,  and  regretted  that  he  had  remained 
away  so  long. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  keenly  when  he  returned, 
seeing  that  the  young  face  had  grown  older  by  years,  and 
that  steadiness  of  purpose  and  resolution  were  in  its  every 
bronzed  line. 

''It's  all  right,  father,"  George  replied  to  the  questioning 
glance.     ''I've  come  back  to  carry  out  your  wishes." 


298  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Ah,  my  boy!  now  I  know  that  you  are  made  of  the 
same  stuff  as  your  brother.     Well,  you  won't  be  sorry." 

"I  wish  to  leave  this  town,  and  I  wish  you  would  too. 
I  don't  think  it's  good  for  you  to   be  here." 

"I'll  think  of  it,  George.  I  have  thought  of  it.  I 
shouldn't  be  mulish  since  you  are  not." 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  so  about  leaving,  father.  Go  back 
with  me  to  your  old  congenial  friends  and  surroundings. 
I,  for  one,  don't  wish  to  stay  where  I  am  ostracized." 

"Oh,  curse  the  rebels!  I've  punished  them!  I've  pun- 
ished them  well!" 

"I  don't  wish  to  punish  them;  but,  since  they  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  me,  a  decent  self-respect  leads  me  to  go 
where  I  can  be  treated  according  to  my  behavior." 

"I  know  you  can't  feel  as  I  do.  All  I  ask  is  that  you 
have  nothing  to  do  with  them." 

For  the  next  few  days,  regardless  of  the  heat,  George 
toiled  early  and  late  in  his  father's  office,  incited  by  the 
hope  of  soon  taking  the  old  man  away  on  a  visit  to  the  more 
bracing  climate  of  the  North.  In  the  evenings  he  refreshed 
himself  by  a  long  swim  in  the  harbor,  and  by  sailing  his  boat 
over  its  waters. 

One  evening,  while  enjoying  the  latter  favorite  pastime 
in  the  early  twilight,  it  so  happened  that  he  caught  sight, 
in  a  passing  boat,  of  a  group  which  made  his  heart  throb 
quickly.  In  the  stern  sat  Captain  Bodine  steering  the  ves- 
sel toward  the  city.  Ella  was  near  him,  and  two  ladies 
whom  he  did  not  know.  As  a  hunter  his  eyes  were  keen, 
and  he  was  satisfied  that  he  had  not  been  recognized.  He 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  get  a  better  view  of  Ella, 
and,  drawing  his  h^t  over  his  eyes,  he  began  to  manoeuvre 
his  boat  so  as  to  accomplish  his  purpose. 

His  little  craft  skimmed  here  and  there  so  swiftly,  as  he 
tacked,  that  Ella  at  last  began  to  watch  it  with  a  pleased 
yet  languid  interest,  remarking,  "That  boat  yonder  tacks 
about  and  sails  as  if  it  were  alive."     * 

"Yah,  yah,  so  'tis  alibe,"  said  the  negro  owner  of  the 


NOBLE  REVENGE  299 

craft  which  Bodine  had  hired  for  their  excursion.  "  Yonng 
Marse  Houghton  sail  dat  boat,  an'  he  beats  any  duck  dat 
eber  swum." 

Ella's  breath  came  quick,  and  she  turned  pale  and  red 
in  her  conflicting  feelings,  for  it  was  evident  that  Houghton 
was  purposely  keeping  near  to  them.  She  saw  the  frown 
on  her  father's  face,  and  that  Mara's  expression  was  grave. 
Mrs.  Hunter  indignantly  said,  ''He  had  better  go  on  and 
mind  his  own  business.  Why  should  old  Houghton's  son 
be  hovering  around  us  like  a  hawk,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"The  harbor  is  as  free  to  him  as  to  us,"  Ella  answered, 
hotly. 

Mrs.  Hunter  pursed  her  lips  and  looked  unutterable 
things  at  the  girl,  but  she  regarded  neither  the  matron's 
sour  expression  nor  her  father's  stern  glance,  for  her  eyes 
were  fascinated  and  held  by  the  vessel  which  sped  along 
the  water  like  a  white-winged  gull.  No  one  except  Ella 
and  the  colored  man  continued  the  observance  of  Hough- 
ton. The  girl  was  in  a  perverse  mood,  and  watched  until 
her  father  rebukingly  spoke  her  name;  then  she  turned 
away. 

Meanwhile  George  gazed  wistfully  at  one  whom  he  be- 
lieved that  he  might  never  see  again;  for  he  and  his  father 
were  almost  ready  for  their  visit  North,  where  the  young 
man  was  to  remain.  Then  he  saw  her  steady  gaze  in  his 
direction.  Could  she  have  recognized  him  ?  Did  she  con- 
tinue to  watch  him  because  of  some  faint  interest?  His 
pulses  quickened  at  the  thought.  After  a  few  moments  he 
said  bitterly:  "Yes,  she  knows  me  at  last,  and  turns  away. 
Very  well,  away  go  I,  then." 

At  this  moment  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  western  sky, 
and  his  sailor  instincts  were  alarmed.  There  was  a  single 
dark  cloud  rising  rapidly,  portending  not  a  storm,  but  sud- 
den, violent  gusts.  In  the  gathering  gloom  all  thought  of 
vanishing  was  abandoned.  No  matter  how  Ella  regarded 
him,  he  would  not  be  far  away  while  there  was  a  shadow 
of  danger  to  her.      Examining  his  sail  carefully  he  knew 


SOO  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

he  could  drop  it  to  the  point  of  safety  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

The  wind  on  which  he  had  been  sailing  died  out.  Then 
came  little  pufts  from  the  west.  To  catch  these  the  colored 
skipper  of  the  captain's  boat  took  the  helm  and  tacked, 
presenting  a  broad  surface  of  sail  to  their  force.  Houghton 
tacked  also  in  the  same  direction,  but  with  his  eye  on  the 
westward  water,  and  his  hand  on  the  rope  which  would 
bring  down  his  sail  with  a  run.  He  speedily  had  need  of 
this  caution.  There  was  a  'distant  roar,  the  water  shoreward 
darkened,  and  then,  as  his  sail  came  down  and  the  prow 
of  his  boat  went  round  to  the  gust,  he  was  enveloped  in 
a  cloud  of  spray.  At  the  same  instant  shrill  screams  of 
women  and  the  hoarse  cries  of  men  came  from  Bodine's 
vessel. 

The  fury  of  the  first  gust  passed  quickly.  When  the 
atmosphere  cleared  a  little,  Houghton  saw  that  the  mast 
of  the  other  craft  had  broken,  and,  with  the  sail,  lay  over 
on  the  leeward  side.  He  instantly  knew  that  the  occupants 
were  in  imminent  danger.  Eaising  his  sail  as  high  as  he 
dared,  he  tacked  toward  them  with  such  nice  judgment  that 
if  he  kept  on  he  would  pass  a  little  abaft  of  the  disabled 
vessel. 

"Oh,  Marse  Houghton!  come  quick,"  yelled  the  negro. 
"She'm  won'  float  anoder  minit!" 

"Bail,  you  lubber!" 

"Don  got  notin  to  bail  widi" 

"As  usual,"  growled  Houghton. 

All  the  rest  were  now  silent.  In  his  agonized  appreheo- 
sion  for  Mara  and  Ella,  Bodine  felt  his  heart  beat  as  it  had 
never  done  in  the  bloodiest  battle.  His  careless  boatman 
had  not  recognized  the  danger  since  the  cloud  was  so  com- 
paratively small,  and  when  he  sought  to  lower  the  sail  some- 
thing was  out  of  gear  and  it  stuck.  The  gust  struck  it  fairly, 
and  would  have  capsized  the  boat  had  not  the  mast  broken. 
As  it  was,  the  vessel  so  careened  as  to  ship  a  dangerous 


NOBLE    REVENGE  301 

quantity  of  water,  which  was  rapidly  increased  by  every 
wave  that  broke  over  the  sides. 

Mara  and  Mrs.  Hunter  were  pallid  indeed,  but  calm  in 
woman's  patient  fortitude,  remembering,  too,  even  in  that 
awful  moment,  that  if  they  escaped  they  would  owe  their 
lives  to  one  whom  they  regarded  with  scorn  and  hostility. 
Ella's  hope  buoyed  her  spirit,  although  she  felt  herself 
sinking  deeper  every  moment  in  the  cold  waters.  With 
love's  confidence  she  believed  that  Houghton  would  be 
equal  to  the  emergency,  and  his  swiftly  coming  sail  was 
like  the  white  wings  of  an  angel.  Then  for  an  instant  she 
was  perplexed  and  troubled,  for  he  seemed  to  be  steering 
as  if  to  pass  them,  near,  yet  much  too  far. 

"She'm  sinkin',  she'm  goin'  un'er,"  the  negro  yelled. 

"Be  ready,  every  one,  to  jump  the  moment  I  lay  along- 
side," Houghton  shouted.  Then  he  lufied  sharply  to  the 
wind,  dropped  his  sail;  his  light  craft  lost  headway,  and 
glided  alongside  of  the  sinking  boat. 

"Now  jump,  all,"  he  cried. 

The  women  and  negro  did  so  and  were  safe,  but  the 
crippled  veteran  failed,  fell  backward,  and  would  have 
dragged  Ella,  who  held  his  hand,  with  him,  had  not 
Houghton  broken  her  grasp.  As  quick  as  light  he  sprang 
into  the  vessel,  now  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  fairly 
flung  the  captain  into  his  own  boat.  As  he  did  so  the 
water-logged  craft  went  down,  and  he  with  it.  Ella  shrieked 
and  called  his  name  imploringly.  In  the  wild  anguish  of 
the  moment  she  would  have  jumped  overboard  after  him 
had  she  not  been  restrained. 

"Patience,"  cried  her  father,  "he  will  rise  in  a  moment. " 

Houghton's  little  boat,  now  so  heavily  freighted,  had  al- 
most gone  under  in  the  suction.  The  negro,  rendered  half 
wild  with  terror,  was  bent  only  on  saving  his  own  life.  He 
was  scarcely  in  the  boat  before  he  had  the  oars  in  the  row- 
locks, and  began  to  pull  for  the  shore.  In  their  eager  scan- 
ning of  the  dark  water,  Bodine  and  the  others  did  not  notice 
this  at  first,  and  when  they  did  the  negro  was  deaf  to  their 


302  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

expostulations  and  threats.  The  captain  tried  to  reach  him 
as  he  heaped  maledictions  on  his  head,  but  at  that  instant 
another  squall  swooped  down,  enshrouding  them  in  spray, 
and  nearly  swamping  their  frail  vessel.  They  sat  silent  and 
trembling,  expecting  Houghton's  fate,  but  the  gust  passed 
finally,  and  the  lights  of  the  city  gleamed  out. 

"Now  put  about,  you coward,"  thundered  Bodine. 

"No,  sah,  neber,"  replied  the  negro;  "de  boat  swamp  in 
two  mi  nit  if  I  put  'bout  in  dis  sea." 

The  veteran  began  to  crawl  toward  him  to  compel  obe- 
dience. The  man  shouted:  "Stop  dat  ar.  Ef  you  comes 
nigher  I  hit  you  wid'n  oar.  Bettah  one  drown  dan  we  all 
drown." 

Ella  gave  a  despairing  cry,  and  found  oblivion  in  a 
deathlike  swoon. 

"Truly,  Captam  Bodine,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter  sternly, 
"you  must  keep  your  senses.  If  the  man  is  right,  and  we 
have  every  reason  to  believe  be  is,  you  must  not  throw 
away  all  our  lives  for  the  chance  of  saving  one." 

Then  she,  with  Mara,  gave  all  her  attention  to  Ella. 

The  captain  groaned  aloud,  "Would  to  God  it  had  been 
me  instead  of  him  I"  Between  his  harrowing  solicitude  for 
Ella,  and  the  awful  belief  that  Houghton  had  given  his  life 
for  him,  he  passed  moments  which  whitened  his  hair. 

As  they  neared  the  landing  the  water  grew  stiller,  and 
their  progress  more  rapid.  Assured  of  safety,  the  negro 
began  to  reason  and  apologize.  "Mus'  be  reas'n'ble,  boss," 
he  said.  "I  dun  declar  ter  you  dat  we'd  all  be  at  de  bot-' 
tom,  feedin'  fishes,  if  I'd  dun  wot  you  ax.  Been  no  use 
nohow.  Young  Marse  Houghton  mus'  got  cotched  in  de 
riggin'  or  he'd  come  up  an'  holler.  I  couldn't  dibe  a'ter 
'im  in  de  dark,  and  in  dat  swashin'  sea." 

' '  Stop  your  cursed  croaking.  If  you  had  known  how  to 
manage  your  boat  it  wouldn't  have  happened." 

"I  dun  my  bes',  boss.  S'pose  I  want  ter  lose  my  boat 
an'  my  life?  I'se  jis'  busted,  an'  I  kin  neber  go  out  on  de 
harbor  agin  widout  fearin'  I  see  young  Marse  Houghton's 


NOBLE    REVENGE  305 

spook.     Fse  wus  off  dan  jou  is,  but  I'se  he'p  you  wen  we 
gits  asho',  if  you  ain't  'tankerous. " 

"Certainly  you  must  help  us,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  de- 
cidedly. "You  must  get  men  and  a  carriage.  Captain 
Bodine  has  lost  his  crutches,  and  his  daughter  is  in  a 
swoon.  If  you  help  us  I  will  testify  that  you  did  the  best 
you  could  under  the  circumstances." 

"All  right,  missus.  I  kin  swar  dat  it  ud  been  death  to 
hab  dun  any  oder  ting." 

The  carriage  was  brought,  and  men  lifted  into  it  the 
unconscious  girl  and  the  almost  equally  helpless  veteran. 
Then  one  mounted  the  box  with  the  driver  and  another 
ran  for  a  physician,  who  was  directed  to  go  to  Mrs.  Bodine's 
residence.  The  negro  carefully  moored  Houghton's  boat, 
feeling  that  there  might  be  something  propitiatory  to  the 
dreaded  ghost  in  this  act.  He  then  hastened  to  his  humble 
cabin,  and  filled  the  ears  of  his  family  and  neighbors  with 
lamentations  over  the  lost  boat  and  lost  man,  and  also  with 
self-gratulations  that  he  was  alive  to  tell  the  story- 

On  the  way  home,  Mara  took  the  stricken  veteran's  hand 
and  said:  "Captain,  you  must  bear  up  under  this.  In  no 
respect  have  you  been  to  blame. ' ' 

"Nevertheless,"  he  replied,  and  there  was  almost  des- 
peration in  his  tone:  "I  feel  that  it  will  prove  the  most 
terrible  misfortune  of  my  life.  Ella  may  never  be  herself 
again,  and  I  have  wronged  one  to  whom  I  can  never  make 
reparation — a,  noble,  generous  boy  who  has  taken  a  revenge 
like  himself,  but  which  is  scorching  my  very  soul." 

"You  are  noble  yourself,  captain,  or  you  wouldn't  feel 
it  so  keenly,"  was  the  gentle  reply. 

Mrs.  Bodine,  without  waiting  for  explanations,  peremp- 
torily ordered  that  Ella  should  be  carried  to  her  room.  The 
veteran,  using  a  second  pair  of  crutches  which  he  kept  in 
reserve,  went  to  the  adjoining  apartment,  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  groaned  audibly.  He  knew  not  how  to  per- 
form one  imperative  and  pressing  duty,  that  of  relating  to 
Mr.  Houghton  what  had  happened. 


304  TEE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Aware  of  what  was  on  his  mind,  Mara  came  to  him  and 
said,  "I  will  go  and  tell  his  father." 

"God  bless  you,  Mara,  for  the  offer.  I  would  rather 
face  death  than  that  old  man,  but  it  is  mj  duty  and  I  alone 
must  do  it.  Hard  as  it  is,  it  is  not  so  terrible  as  the  thought 
that  the  poor  boy  died  for  me  and  mine,  and  that  1  can 
never  make  the  acknowledgment  which  his  heroic  self- 
sacrifice  deserves.  It  would  have  been  heroic  in  any  man, 
but  in  him  whom  I  had  treated  with  such  bitter  scorn  and 
enmity —  How  can  I  meet  Ella's  eyes  again!  Oh,  I  fear, 
I  fear  all  this  will  destroy  her!" 

"Courage,  my  friend, "  said  Mara,  putting  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder.     "Ella  will  live  to  comfort  you." 

"Mara,  you  will  not  fail  me  ?" 

"No,  I  will  not  fail  you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  then  she  returned 
to  Ella. 

Mrs.  Hunter  and  old  Hannah  removed  the  poor  girl's 
wet  garments  and  applied  restoratives.  The  invalid,  whose 
strength  and  spirit  rose  with  the  emergency,  directed  their 
efforts,  meantime  listening  to  the  fragmentary  explanations 
which  were  possible  at  such  a  time. 

"Oh,  just  God!"  she  exclaimed,  "we  are  punished,  ter- 
ribly punished  for  our  thoughts  and  actions  toward  that 
poor  boy.  Ella,  dear  child,  was  right  after  all,  and  we  all 
wrong.     She  might  well  love  such  a  hero." 

At  last  Ella  gave  signs  of  returning  consciousness.  Mrs. 
Bodine  hastened  to  the  captain,  and  said:  "Cousin  Hugh, 
Ella  is  reviving.  You  must  control  yourself.  Everything 
depends  on  how  we  tide  her  over  the  next  few  hours." 

The  length  of  the  swoon  revealed  the  force  of  the  blow 
which  the  loving  girl  had  received.  Perhaps  the  long  ob- 
livion was  nature's  kindly  effort  to  ward  off  the  crushing 
weight.  Mrs.  Bodine  hung  over  her  when  she  opened  her 
eyes  with  a  dazed  expression.  "There,  Ella  dear,"  she  said, 
"don't  worry.  You'll  soon  be  better.  Take  this,"  and  she 
gave  the  girl  a  little  brandy  and  water. 


NOBLE    REVENGE  805 

The  powerful  stimulant  acted  speedily  on  an  unvitiated 
system,  and  with  returning  strength  memory  recalled  what 
had  befallen  the  one  she  loved.  From  tears  she  passed  to 
passionate  sobs,  writhing  and  moaning,  as  if  the  agony  of 
her  spirit  had  communicated  itself  to  every  fibre  of  her 
body. 

"Oh,  Ella,  darling,  don't,"  cried  her  father.  "I  cannot 
endure  this.  He  has  conquered  me  utterly;  my  prejudice 
is  turned  into  homage.  We  will  all  love  and  revere  his 
memory.     Would  to  God  it  had  been  I  instead  of  him!" 

"There,  Hugh,  thank  God,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine,  "that 
Ella  can  weep.     Such  tears  keep  the  heart  from  breaking.'* 

The  old  lady  was  right.  Expression  of  her  anguish 
brought  alleviation,  and  there  was  also  consolation  in  her 
father's  words.  The  physician  came,  and  his  remedies  also 
had  their  effect. 

There  was  nothing  morbid  or  unhealthful  in  Ella's  na- 
ture. With  returning  reason  came  also  the  influence  of 
conscience  and  the  sustaining  power  of  a  brave,  unselfish 
spirit.  Her  father  had  put  himself  in  accord  with  her  feel- 
ings, and  her  heart  began  to  go  out  toward  him  in  tender- 
ness and  consideration,  and  she  said  brokenly:  "Papa,  I 
will  rally.  I  will  live  for  your  sake,  since  you  will  let  me 
love  his  memory." 

"You  cannot  love  it  or  honor  it  more  than  I  shall,"  he 
replied,  in  a  voice  choked  with  emotion.  Then  he  took  the 
physician  into  the  adjoining  room,  to  consult  how  best 
they  might  break  the  dreadful  news  to  Mr.  Houghton. 

At  this  moment  the  front  door  burst  open,  and  hasty, 
uncertain  steps  were  heard. 


306  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


M 


CHAPTER  XXXYI 

A    father's    frenzy 

R.  HOUGHTON  knew  that  his  son  had  gone  out 
sailing  in  the  harbor,  and,  when  the  gusts  swept 
over  the  city,  became  very  anxious  about  him. 
He  was  aware,  however,  of  George's  good  seamanship,  and 
tried  to  allay  his  fears  by  thoughts  of  this  nature.  As  time 
lapsed,  anxiety  passed  into  alarm  and  dread  foreboding. 
At  last  he  summoned  his  coachman,  and  determined  to  go 
to  the  place  where  his  son  moored  his  boat.  As  he  was 
about  to  prepare  himself  for  the  street,  there  were  two 
hasty  rings  of  the  door- bell.  He  sank  into  a  chair,  over- 
come by  the  awful  fear  which,  for  a  moment,  robbed  him 
of  strength. 

Now  it  had  so  happened  that  one  of  his  younger  clerks  had 
been  on  the  Battery  when  the  rescued  party  reached  it,  and  he 
had  gathered  little  more  from  the  colored  boatman  than  that 
young  Houghton  had  been  drowned  in  saving  Bodine  and 
the  ladies  with  him.  His  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  tell  his 
employer,  and  he  started  to  carry  out  this  purpose.  On  his 
way  he  remembered  that,  in  horror  over  the  event,  he  had 
not  stopped  to  ask  fuller  particulars,  and  he  turned  back  to 
question  the  negro  more  fully.  When  he  reached  George's 
boat  he  found  that  the  man  had  gone,  and  that  the  small 
crowd  which  had  gathered  had  dispersed.  With  a  heavy 
heart  he  again  started  for  Mr.  Houghton's  residence,  regret- 
ting sadly  that  it  was  his  duty  to  communicate  the  terrible 
news.  His  feelings  increased  to  a  nervous  dread  by  the 
time  he  reached  Mr.  Houghton's  door.     He  feared  the  stern 


A    FATHER'S    FRENZY  307 

old  man,  and  believed  that  he  would  always  be  associated 
with  the  tragedy,  and  so  become  abhorrent  in  the  eyes  of 
his  employer.  But,  as  the  thing  must  be  done,  the  sooner 
It  was  over  the  better. 

The  colored  waiter  admitted  the  trembling  form,  and  ex- 
claimed, "O  Lawd!  what  happen?" 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Houghton." 

" Bring  him  up, "  shouted  the  old  man  hoarsely.  "Well,'* 
he  gasped  as  the  clerk  entered. 

"Mr,  Houghton,  I'm  very  sorry — " 

"For  God's  sake,  out  with  it!" 

"Well,  sir,  I  fear  Mr.  George—" 

"Drowned!"  shrieked  the  father. 

The  young  clerk  was  silent  and  appalled. 

"Oh,  curse  that  harbor!  Curse  that  harbor!"  the  old 
man  groaned. 

"Perhaps,  sir,"  faltered  the  clerk,  "Mr.  Bodine  can — " 

"Bodme!  Bodine!  what  in  hell  had  he  to  do  with  it?" 

"1  could  not  learn  the  particulars  beyond  that  Mr. 
George  was — was — in  saving  Mr.  Bodine,  his  daughter, 
and  two  other  ladies — " 

"Now  may  all  the  infernal  powers  blast  that  rebel!"  and 
the  old  man  rushed  down  the  stairway. 

The  frightened  clerk  and  waiter  followed  hastily,  and  re- 
strained him  as  he  was  opening  the  front  door. 

"Sir,  dear  sir,  be  patient — " 

"Now,  Marse  Houghton,  wot  you  gwine  ter  do?"  cried 
the  negro. 

"I'm  going  straight  to  that  damned  Bodine." 

"Den,  Marse  Houghton,  you  mus  ride.  Sam's  puttin'  de 
bosses  to  de  kerrige  dis  minit. ' ' 

Houghton  instantly  darted  through  the  house  and  out  to 
the  stable.     "Haste!"  he  thundered,  "haste,  you  snail!" 

The  waiter  helped  Sam,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  the  car- 
riage rumbled  away,  the  waiter  on  the  box  with  the  coach- 
man, and  the  clerk  inside  with  the  frenzied  father. 

It  was  his  steps  which  had  startled  Bodine  and  the  physi- 


308  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

cian,  and  they  opened  the  door  facing  the  landing  as  the  old 
man  came  rushing  up,  crying  hoarsely,  "Where's  my  boy?" 

"Where  I  wish  I  was,"  replied  Bodine  gravely. 

The  doctor  was  a  strong  and  decided  man.  A  glance 
showed  him  that  Mr.  Houghton  was  excited  almost  to  the 
point  of  insanity.  Seizing  his  hand  the  doctor  drew  the  old 
man  into  the  room,  and  with  gentle  force  placed  him  in  a 
chair.  Never  for  a  moment,  however,  did  Mr.  Houghton 
take  his  fiery  eyes  from  Bodine,  who,  now  that  he  was  in 
the  stress  of  the  emergency,  maintained  his  sad  composure 
perfectly.  Only  a  soldier  whose  nerves  had  been  steeled  in 
battle  could  have  looked  upon  the  half-demented  man  so 
quietly,  for  he  presented  a  terrible  spectacle.  His  white 
hair  was  dishevelled,  and  his  eyes  had  the  ferocity  of  a 
lioness  robbed  of  her  young.  Foam  gathered  at  his  lips  as 
he  began  again: 

"Curse  your  ill-omened  face!  Such  men  as  you  are 
worse  than  a  pestilence.  As  a  rebel  was  there  not  enough 
blood  on  your  hands?  He  saved  you,  why  couldn't  you 
do  something  to  save  him?" 

"Mr.  Houghton,  I  did  try.  I  would  have  perilled  even 
the  lives  of  women. 

"You  have  virtually  murdered  him,  sir.  Did  you  not 
say  that  if  he  had  the  trace  of  a  gentleman  in  his  anatomy 
he  would  leave  you  and  yours  alone  ?  He  would  rather 
drown  than  go  ashore  with  you." 

Ella  could  not  help  hearing  his  loud,  harsh  words,  and 
her  long,  wailing  cry  was  their  echo. 

At  this  instant  Mrs.  Bodine  burst  into  the  room,  and  her 
slender  form  seemed  to  dilate  until  a  consciousness  of  her 
presence  filled  the  apartment.  Her  face  was  more  than 
stern.  It  wore  the  commanding  expression  of  a  high-born 
woman  roused  to  the  full  extent  of  an  unusually  strong  na- 
ture. Her  dark  eyes  had  an  overmastering  fire,  and  her 
withered  cheeks  were  red  with  blood  direct  from  her  heart. 

"Listen  to  me,  sir,"  she  said  imperiously,  "and  stop  your 
raving.     Do  not  forget  for  another  instant  that  you  are  a 


A    FATHER'S   FRENZY  309 

man,  and  that  there  are  women  in  this  house  whom  you  are 
wounding  by  your  brutal  words.  You,  yourself,  in  very 
truth  will  commit  murder,  if  you  do  not  become  sane.  Did 
you  not  hear  that  cry  ?  fit  response  to  language  that  is  like 
a  bludgeon.  How  are  you  worse  ofi  than  I,  who  have  lost 
husband,  sons,  all  ?  Have  you  not  said  to  your  boy  as 
cruel  thmgs  as  Captain  Bodine  has  said?  This  son  of 
yours  was  too  noble,  too  generous,  too  lofty  for  either 
you  or  us  to  understand  in  our  damnable  prejudices  and 
blind  hate.  Come  with  me,"  and,  seizing  his  hand,  she 
dragged  him  to  where  Ella  lay,  white  as  death.  "There," 
she  resumed  in  the  same  impetuous  yet  clear-cut  tones,  "is 
as  pure  and  good  a  girl  as  ever  God  created.  Was  loving 
her  a  crime?  Go  home,  and  ask  God  to  forgive  you,  to 
take  you  where  your  son  is  in  His  good  time.  That  poor 
child  is  the  real  victim.  Unless  you  are  mad  indeed  you 
will  ask  her  forgiveness,  and  go  quietly  away," 

The  old  man  trembled  like  a  leaf,  swayed  to  and  fro  be- 
tween his  fierce  conflicting  emotions,  and  then  left  the  house 
as  hastily  as  he  had  entered.  As  he  did  so,  Ella  called  after 
him  feebly,  but  her  voice  was  unheard. 

The  clerk  and  the  colored  waiter  stood  at  the  open  door, 
and  received  Mr.  Houghton's  tottering  form.  "Home,"  he 
gasped. 

In  renewed  dread  they  bore  him  to  his  carriage,  which 
Sam  drove  rapidly  away.  By  the  time  he  reached  his  resi- 
dence he  was  in  almost  a  fainting  condition,  and  was  carried 
to  his  bed.  The  waiter,  who  also  acted  in  the  capacity  of 
valet  at  times,  gave  the  old  man  stimulants,  as  he  said  to 
the  clerk,  "Go  for  Dr.  Devoe;  Sam  dribe  you.  Bring  'im 
wid  you  quick." 

The  old  man  at  last  lay  still,  breathing  heavily,  and 
half-consciously  making  an  instinctive  struggle  for  exist- 
ence. The  shock  of  his  passion  and  the  weight  of  an  im- 
measurable loss  had  been  almost  beyond  endurance  to  a 
man  of  his  age  and  of  his  volcanic  nature.  His  physician 
was  soon  at  his  side,  and,  with  some  degree  of  success,  put 


310  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

forth  all  his  skill  to  rally  his  exhausted  patient.  He  at  last 
succeeded  in  producing  a  certain  degree  of  lethargy,  which, 
in  benumbing  the  brain,  brought  respite  from  mental  agony. 

The  impression  of  Bodine  and  all  the  others  with  him 
that  young  Houghton  had  been  drowned  was  natural  and 
almost  inevitable.  They  had  seen  him  disappear  beneath 
the  water,  and  that  was  the  last  that  was  seen  or  heard. 
The  boatman's  explanation  that  the  young  man  had  become 
entangled  in  the  rigging  of  the  sunken  vessel  seemed  the  only 
way  of  accounting  for  the  fact  that  he  did  not  rise  again  and 
strike  out  for  his  own  boat.  The  words  of  Mr.  Houghton, 
recalling  that  final  sentence  of  Bodine' s,  which  had  de- 
stroyed George's  hope  and  made  him  feel  that  he  could 
not  approach  Ella  again,  had  greatly  augmented  the  vet- 
eran's distress.  The  thought,  once  lodged,  could  not  be 
banished  that  the  youth,  in  his  wounded  pride,  might  have 
silently  chosen  to  brave  every  danger  in  order  to  prove  that 
he  was  a  "gentleman,"  and  that  he  would  "leave  them 
alone,"  even  at  the  cost  of  his  life.  This  result  of  his 
harsh  words  was  crushing  to  Bodine,  and  to  escape  from 
its  intolerable  weight  he  tried  to  entertain  the  hope  that 
George  had  found  some  way  of  attaining  safety  as  yet 
unknown. 

The  young  man  had  not  been  drowned,  although  he  had 
had  an  exceedingly  narrow  escape.  It  was  not  the  rigging 
which  so  endangered  his  life.  As  he  rose  toward  the  sur- 
face his  head  struck  the  pole  with  which  the  negro  was  ac- 
customed to  push  his  boat  around  in  the  shallow  water,  and 
the  blow  was  so  stunning  that  he  did  no  more  than  instinc- 
tively cling  to  the  object  which  had  injured  him.  It  sus- 
tained his  weight,  but,  in  the  wind-lashed  waves  and  dark- 
ness, he  and  his  support  were  unseen.  The  tide  was  running 
out  swiftly,  and  he  and  the  pole  had  been  swept  well  astern, 
while  Bodine  looked  at  the  spot  where  they  thought  he  had 
sunk — a  point  from  which  the  negro's  frantic  oar-strokes 
were  rapidly  taking  them. 

Gradually  George's  clouded  senses  cleared,  and  at  last 


A    FATHER'S   FRENZY  311 

he  recalled  all  that  had  occurred;  far  too  late,  however, 
for  his  voice  to  be  heard.  He  shouted  two  or  three  times, 
but  soon  recognized  that  his  cries  were  lost  in  the  dashing 
waves  and  howling  wind.  So  tar  from  giving  way  to  panic, 
he  encouraged  himself  with  the  hope  that  his  effort  to  res- 
cue Ella  and  those  with  her  had  not  been  in  vain.  Point- 
ing the  pole  toward  the  city  lights,  he  tried  to  make  prog- 
ress by  striking  out  with  his  feet,  but  was  soon  convinced 
that  he  was  exhausting  himself  to  little  purpose,  for  both 
wind  and  tide  were  against  him.  fie  therefore  let  himself 
float,  hoping  to  be  picked  up  by  some  vessel,  or,  at  the 
worst,  to  land  at  Fort  Sumter,  which  he  deemed  to  be  the 
nearest  point  of  safety.  Before  very  long  he  heard  the 
throbbing  of  a  steamer's  engine,  and  soon  her  lights  pierced 
tbe  gloom.  To  get  near  enough  to  make  his  condition 
known  without  being  run  down  was  now  his  aim.  She 
seemed  to  be  coming  directly  toward  him,  and  he  thanked 
Heaven  that  the  wind  was  dying  out  so  that  his  voice  might 
be  heard. 

As  soon  as  he  thought  the  steamer  was  within  hailing 
distance  he  began  to  shout,  "Ship  ahoy!"  No  heed  was 
given  until  the  boat  seemed  to  be  almost  upon  him,  and 
he  swam,  with  his  pole,  desperately  to  the  left  to  avoid 
her.  Then  inflating  his  lungs  he  shouted,  "Help,  if  you 
are  men  and  not  devils!" 

"Hallo  there!     Man  overboard?" 

"i  should  say  so,"  thundered  Houghton.  "Slow  up, 
and  throw  me  a  rope." 

The  wheels  were  reversed  at  once.  A  man  near  the  bow 
seized  a  coil  of  rope  and  yelled,  "Where  are  you  ?" 

"Here!"  cried  Houghton,  splashing  the  water  with  his 
hands. 

The  rope  flew  with  a  boatman's  aim;  George  grasped  it, 
and,  with  sailor- like  dexterity,  fastened  the  end  around  his 
body  under  his  arms.  Then  laying  hold  of  it  also  with  his 
hands,  he  cried  from  the  water  almost  under  the  wheel, 
"Pull." 


312  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

In  a  moment  or  two  he  was  on  deck  and  besieged  with 
questions.  "Boat  swamped  in  the  squall,"  he  replied 
briefly.  "I  kept  afloat  on  a  pole  till  you  picked  me  up. 
There  was  another  boat  that  I  am  anxious  about.  I'll  go 
up  in  the  pilot-house  and  keep  a  weather-eye  open." 

''Well,  you're  a  cool  one,"  said  the  captain. 

"I've  been  in  the  water  long  enough  to  get  cool.  Would 
you  mind  lending  me  an  overcoat  or  some  wrap  ?' '  And  he 
escaped  from  the  gathering  crowd  to  the  pilot-house. 

The  vessel  proved  to  be  a  little  steamer  which  plied  be- 
tween the  islands  down  the  harbor  and  the  city.  "That 
was  young  Houghton,"  said  one  of  the  passengers. 

" him!"  said   another.     "It's  a  pity  he  and  his  old 

money-griper  of  a  dad  are  not  both  at  the  bottom." 

Wrapped  in  the  captain's  greatcoat,  George  was  as  com- 
fortable as  his  anxieties  would  permit.  No  sign  of  life  was 
upon  the  dark  waters.  When  the  boat  made  her  landing, 
he  slipped  out  of  his  coat,  leaped  ashore,  and,  walking  and 
running  alternately,  soon  reached  his  father's  house. 

Opening  the  door  with  his  latch-key,  he  stumbled  on 
Jube,  the  waiter,  who  backed  away  from  him  with  some- 
thing like  a  yell  of  fear,  believing  that  his  young  master 
had  come  back  in  ghostly  guise. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool!"  said  George  sternly.     "Don't  you 

know  me  ?' ' 

"0  Lawd,  Lawd!  you  ain't  a  spook,  Marse  George?" 

"I'll  box  your  ears  in  a  way  that  will  convince 
you—' ' 

At  this  moment  Dr.  Devoe  came  hastily  from  the  sick- 
room, and  met  George  on  the  stairs.  "Thank  God!"  ex- 
claimed the  physician,  "you  have  escaped.  Caution,  now, 
caution.  You  must  not  show  yourself  to  your  father  till  I 
give  permission." 

"Has  he  heard  ?    Is  he  very  ill  ?"  George  asked,  in  deep 

anxiety. 

"Yes,  but  he'll  come  through  all  right,  now  that  you 
are  alive.     I've  had  to  stupefy  him  partially.     He  was  told 


A    FATHER'S    FRENZY  313 

that  you  had  been  drowned.  Go  change  your  clothes,  and 
be  ready  when  I  want  you.     How  did  you  escape  ?" 

''Picked  up  by  the  steamer  'Firefly.'  Did  they  escape? 
— I  mean  Mr.  Bodine  and  his  party." 

"Yes;  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  left  you  to  drown." 

When  the  physician  returned  Mr.  Houghton  roused  a  lit- 
tle, and  asked,  "What  is  the  matter?     Is  George  ill?" 

"No,  he's  better." 

The  old  man  closed  his  eyes,  and  at  last  said  dreamily, 
"Yes,  he's  better,  better  off  in  heaven." 

"Mr.  Houghton,"  said  the  doctor,  kindly,  "I've  just 
heard  that  a  man  was  picked  up  by  the  steamer  running 
between   the  city  and  the  islands.     I  don't  give  up  hope 

yet." 

' '  Hope !  hope  1     Do  you  mean  to  say  there  is  hope  ?' ' 

"I  do.  If  you  will  be  patient  we  will  soon  know.  I 
have  taken  steps  to  find  out  speedily." 

"O  God,  be  merciful!  I  don't  see  how  I  can  long  sur- 
vive if  he  IS  dead.  " 

Jube,  satisfied  that  George  was  in  the  flesh,  followed  him 
to  his  room,  and  aided  him  in  exchanging  his  wet  clothes 
for  dry  ones,  meanwhile  answering  the  young  man's  rapid 
questions. 

Touched  to  the  very  soul  by  the  account  of  his  father's 
frantic  grief,  George's  thoughts  centred  on  him,  but  he 
asked,  "What  happened  at  Mr.  Bodine' s?" 

"Dunno,  Marse  George.  Marse  Houghton  run  up  de 
stairs,  an'  dey  took  'im  in  a  room.  Den  I  heerd  loud 
talkin',  an'  soon  he  come  runnin'  out  all  kin  ob  gone 
like,  and  he  gasp,  'Home.'  We  lif  him  in  de  kerrige,  an 
Sam  dribe  as  if  de  debil  was  arter  'im.  Den  we  gits  de 
doctor  sudden." 

Having  dressed,  George  opened  his  desk  and  wrote: 

* 'Captain  Bodine, 

"/5?r — It  may  relieve  you  of  some  natural  anxiety  to  learn  that  I  escaped, 
and  that  I  am  well  and  at  home.  My  father  is  very  ill,  and  absolute  quiet  of 
mind  and  body  is  essential.  George  Houghton." 

N— Roe— X  V 


314  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Then  he  addressed  a  line  to  the  editor  of  the  daily  paper: 

"Rumors  of  an  accident  in  the  harbor  and  of  my  being  drowned  may  reach 
you.  This  note  is  evidence  that  I  am  safe  and  well.  I  will  esteem  it  a  favor 
if  no  mention  is  made  of  the  affair." 

Despatching  Sam  with  these  two  missives,  he  held  him- 
self in  readiness  for  the  summons  to  his  father's  bedside. 

Dr.  Devoe,  in  his  efforts  to  save  his  patient  from  any- 
more nervous  shocks,  administered  another  sedative,  and 
then  talked  quietly  of  the  probability  of  George's  escape. 

The  old  man's  mind  was  far  from  clear,  and  in  his  half 
dreamy  state  was  inclined  to  believe  what  was  said  to  him. 
Then  the  physician  pretended  to  hear  the  return  of  his  mes- 
senger, and  went  out  for  a  few  moments.  When  he  came 
back  he  saw  Mr.  Houghton's  eyes  dilating  with  fear  and 
hope. 

"Take  courage,  my  friend,"  he  said.  "Great  joys  are 
dangerous  as  well  as  great  sorrows.  You  must  be  calm  for 
your  son's  sake  as  well  as  for  your  own.  He  has  escaped, 
as  I  told  you  he  might,  and  will  see  you  when  you  feel 
strong  enough." 

"Now,  now!" 

A  moment  later  the  father's  arms  were  about  his  boy. 
With  gentle,  soothing  words  and  endearing  terms  George 
calmed  the  sobs  of  the  aged  man,  whose  stern  eyes  had 
been  so  unaccustomed  to  tears.  At  last  he  slept,  holding 
his  son's  hand. 

The  clerk  was  dismissed  with  cordial  thanks;  George 
and  the  physician  watched  unweariedly,  for  the  latter  said 
that  everything  depended  on  the  patient's  condition  whea 
he  awoke. 


CLOUDS   LIFTING  316 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII 

CLOUDS   LIFTING 

IN  Mrs.  Bodine's  humbler  home  there  was  another  patienli 
who  also  had  found  such  respite  as  anodynes  can  bring. 
Ella's  fair  face  had  become  like  the  purest  marble  in 
its  whiteness,  but  the  hot  tears  had  ceased  to  flow,  and  the 
bosom  which  had  heaved  convulsively  with  anguish  was 
now  so  still  that  the  girl  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe  at  all. 
Captam  Bodine,  Mara,  and  old  Hannah  were  the  watchers. 
Mara  now,  for  the  first  time,  observed  how  white  the  vet- 
eran's iron-gray  hair  had  become.  He  had  grown  old  in  a 
night,  rather  in  an  hour.  The  strong  lines  of  his  face  were 
graven  deep;  his  troubled  eyes  were  sunken,  giving  a  pecul- 
iarly haggard  expression  to  his  countenance. 

Her  heart  was  full  of  gentleness  and  sympathy  toward 
him,  and  of  this  he  was  assured  from  time  to  time  by  her  elo- 
quent glances. 

Mrs.  Bodine  was  being  cared  for  by  Mrs.  Hunter,  for 
she  was  ill  in  the  reaction  from  her  strong  excitement  and 
unwonted  exertion. 

But  few  hours  had  passed  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
door.  All  except  Ella  looked  at  each  other  with  startled 
eyes.  What  did  this  late  summons  portend?  Mara  rose 
to  go  to  the  door,  but  with  a  silent  gesture  the  captain 
restrained  her  and  went  down  himself. 

''Who  is  this  from?"  he  asked,  as  he  took  the  letter 
from  Sam. 


316  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Fum  young  Marse  Houghton.  He  ain't  drowned  no 
mo'n  1  be." 

''Thank  God!"  ejaculated  Bodine,  with  such  fervor  that 
he  was  heard  in  the  rooms  above. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  "1  reckon  He  de  one  ter  t'ank."  Sam 
had  imbibed  the  impression  that  Bodine  had  left  his  young 
master  to  drown. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Mara  over  the  banisters. 

"Young  Houghton  escaped,  after  all. — Here,  my  man, 
is  a  dollar.  Wait  a  few  minutes,  for  1  ma}^  wish  to  send 
an  answer." 

The  gas  was  burning  dimly  in  the  parlor.  Turning  it 
up,  he  read  the  brief  missive,  and  recognized  from  its  tone 
that  the  young  man  still  had  in  mind  the  veteran's  former 
attitude  toward  him.     He  sat  down  and  wrote  rapidly: 

*'Mr.  George  Houghton, 

'''Honored  Sir — At  this  late  hour,  and  with  your  coachman  waiting,  1  must 
be  brief.  My  term,  'Honored  Sir,'  is  no  empty  phrase,  for  from  the  depths  of 
my  heart  I  do  honor  your  heroic,  generous  risk  of  hfe  for  me  and  mine;  and 
my  sentiments  are  shared  by  the  ladies  whom  you  rescued.  I  have  been  harsh 
and  unjust  to  you,  and  I  ask  your  forgiveness.  You  have  conquered  my  preju- 
dice utterly.  Do  not  imagine  that  a  Southern  man  and  a  Confederate  soldier 
cannot  appreciate  such  noble  magnanimity. 

"Yours  in  eternal  respect  and  gratitude, 

"Hugh  Bodine." 

As  he  finished  it  Mara  entered,  and  was  astonished  at  his 
appearance.  The  haggard  face,  seamed  with  sufiering,  that 
she  had  looked  upon  but  a  few  moments  before,  was  trans- 
figured. Anguish  of  soul  was  no  longer  expressed,  but 
rather  gladness,  and  the  impress  of  those  divine  impulses 
which  lead  men  to  acknowledge  their  wrong  and  to  make 
reparation.  In  the  strong  light  his  white  hair  was  like 
a  halo,  and  his  luminous  eyes  revealed  the  good  and  the 
spiritual  in  the  man,  as  they  are  manifested  only  in  the  best 
and  supreme  moments  of  life. 

He  handed  Mara  the  letter.     When  she  had  read  it  she 


CLOUDS   LIFTING  817 

looked  at   him  with  tear- dimmed   eyes,   and  said:    "It  is 
what  I  should  have  expected  from  you." 

After  dismissing  Sam  he  returned  to  the  parlor,  and, 
taking  the  girl's  hand  again,  began,  "God  bless  you,  Mara! 
You  have  stood  by  me,  you  have  sustained  me  m  the  most 
terrible  emergency  of  my  life.  There  were  features  in  this 
ordeal  which  it  seemed  impossible  for  me  to  endure,  which 
1  could  not  have  endured  but  for  your  sympathy  and  the 
justice  you  have  done  me  in  your  thoughts.  Oh,  Mara,  do 
not  let  me  err  again.  You  know  I  love  you  fondly,  but 
your  happiness  must  be  first,  now  and  always.  In  my  wish 
to  make  you  my  wife,  let  me  be  sure  that  I  am  securing 
your  happiness  even  more  than  my  own." 

At  that  moment  she  was  exalted  by  an  enthusiasm  felt 
to  be  divine.  In  her  deep  sympathy  her  heart  was  tender 
toward  him.  She  had  just  seen  him  put  his  old  proud  self 
under  his  feet,  as  he  acknowledged  heroic  action  in  one 
whom  she  had  thought  incapable  of  it.  Could  she  fail  this 
loved  and  honored  friend,  when  a  wronged  Northern  boy 
had  counted  his  life  as  naught  to  save  him  ? 

Never  had  her  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  so  asserted  itself 
before.  Indeed,  it  no  longer  seemed  to  be  self-sacrifice,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  "Life  ofiers  me  nothing 
better  than  to  become  your  wife. 

He  drew  her  close  to  his  breast,  but  at  this  touch  of  her 
sacred  person,  something  deep  in  her  woman's  nature  shrunk 
and  protested.  Even  at  that  moment  she  was  compelled  to 
learn  that  the  heart  is  more  potent  than  the  mind,  even 
though  it  be  kindled  by  the  strongest  and  most  unselfish 
enthusiasm.  Only  the  deep  and  subtle  principle  of  love 
could  have  given  to  that  embrace  unalloyed  repose.  Never- 
theless she  had  said  what  she  believed  true,  "Life  had  noth- 
ing better  for  her. ' ' 

As  Ella  still  slept  quietly,  Bodine  insisted  that  Mara 
should  retire,  saying,  "I  and  old  Hannah  can  do  all  that 
is  required." 

"But  you  need  rest  more  than  I,"  Mara  protested. 


318        .  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"No.  Gladness  has  banished  sleep  from  my  eyes,  and 
I  must  be  at  Ella's  side  when  she  wakes." 

Mara  was  glad  to  obey,  for  no  divine  exhilaration  had 
come  to  her.  She  was  not  strong,  and  a  reaction  approach- 
ing exhaustion  was  setting  in. 

In  the  dawn  of  the  following  day  Ella  began  to  stir  un- 
easily in  her  sleep,  to  moan  and  sigh.  Vaguely  the  unspent 
force  of  her  grief  was  reasserting  itself,  as  the  benumbing 
effects  of  anodynes  passed  from  her  brain.  Her  father  mo- 
tioned Hannah  to  leave  the  apartment,  and  then  took  Ella's 
hand.  At  last  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him  in  a 
dazed,  troubled  way.  "Oh!"  she  moaned,  "I've  had  such 
dreadful  dreams.     Have  1  been  ill?" 

"Yes,  Ella  dear,  very  ill,  but  you  are  better  now.  The 
worst  is  well  over." 

"Dear  papa,  have  you  been  watching  all  night?" 

"That's  a  very  little  thing  to  do,  Ella  darling." 

She  lay  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  began  to  sob, 
"Oh,  1  remember  all  now.     He's  dead,  dead,  dead." 

"Ella,"  said  her  father  gently,  taking  her  hands  from 
her  face,  "I  do  not  believe  he  is  dead.  There  is  a 
report  that  he  escaped— that  he  was  picked  up  by  a 
steamer. ' ' 

She  sat  up  instantly,  as  if  all  her  strength  had  returned, 
and,  with  her  blue  eyes  dilating  through  her  tears,  ex- 
claimed, "Oh,  papa,  don't  keep  me  on  the  rack  of  sus- 
pense!    Give  me  life  by  telling  me  that   he  lives." 

"Yes,  Ella,  he  is  alive.  He  has  written  to  me,  and  I 
have  answered  in  the  way   that  you   would  wish." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  in  an  embrace  that 
was  almost  convulsive,  and  then  sank  back  exhausted. 

"Now,  Ella  darling,  for  all  our  sakes  you  must  keep 
quiet  and  composed;"  and  he  gave  her  a  little  of  the  strong 
nourishment  which  the  physician  had  ordered. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  still  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips. 
In  her  feebleness  one  happy  thought  sufficed,  "He  is  not 
dead!" 


CLOUDS    LIFTING  319 

At  last  a  faint  color  stole  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  asked: 
"What  did  you  write,  papa?" 

He  repeated  his  letter  almost  verbatim. 

"That  was  enough,  papa,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
''It  was  very  noble  in  you  to  write  in  that  way." 

"No,  Ella,  it  was  simple  justice." 

She  gave  him  a  smile  which  warmed  his  heart.  After 
a  little  while  she  again  spoke.  "Go  and  rest,  papa.  I  feel 
that  I  can  sleep  again.  Oh,  thank  God!  thank  God!  His 
sun  is  rising  on  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth." 

Kissing  her  fondly,  her  father  halted  away.  Old  Hannah 
resumed  her  watch,  but  was  soon  relieved  by  Mara. 

When  George  read  Captain  Bodine's  letter  the  night 
grew  luminous  about  him.  He  had  not  expected  any  such 
acknowledgment.  With  characteristic  modesty  he  had  un- 
derrated his  own  action,  and  he  had  not  given  Bodine  credit 
for  the  degree  of  manhood  possessed  by  him.  Indeed,  he 
had  almost  feared  that  both  father  and  daughter  might  be 
embarrassed  and  burdened  by  a  sense  of  obligation,  whose 
only  effect  would  be  to  make  them  miserable.  Generous 
himself,  he  was  deeply  touched  by  the  proud  man's  abso- 
lute surrender,  and  he  at  once  appreciated  the  fine  nature 
which  had  been  revealed  by  the  letter. 

"Now,"  he  reasoned,  "as  far  as  her  father  is  concerned, 
the  way  is  open  for  me  to  seek  Ella's  love  by  patient  and 
devoted  attentions.  1  shall  at  last  have  the  chance  which 
was  impossible  when  I  could  not  approach  her  at  all.  After 
this  experience  I  believe  that  my  own  dear  father  will  be 
softened,  and  be  led  to  see  how  much  better  are  happiness 
and  content  than  ambitious  schemes." 

But  Mr.  Houghton  was  destined  to  disappoint  his  son. 
He  awoke  very  feeble  in  body,  and  not  very  clear  in  mind. 
His  one  growing  desire  was  to  get  away  from  Charleston, 
"1  don't  ever  wish  to  look  on  that  accursed  harbor  again," 
he  repeated  over  and  over. 

"We  must  humor  him  in  every  way  possible,"  Dr.  Devoe 


320  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

said  to  George,  "and  as  sood  as  he  is  strong  enough  you 
must  take  him  North. ' ' 

George's  heart  sank  at  these  words,  and  at  others  which 
his  father  constantly  reiterated. 

''I  wish  to  get  away  from  this  city,  George,"  he  would 
say  feebly.  "I  will  go  anywhere,  only  to  be  away  from  this 
town  and  its  people.  Oh,  I've  had  such  a  warning!  This 
is  no  place  for  you  or  me.  Its  people  are  aliens.  They 
destroyed  one  of  my  boys,  and  they  have  nearly  cost  you 
your  life,  as  well  as  your  happiness  and  success  in  life. 
Oh,  that  terrible  old  woman,  with  her  tongue  of  fire!  She 
looked  and  talked  like  an  accusing  fiend.  I  want  to  go 
away  from  it  all,  and  forget  it  all— that  such  a  place  and 
people  exist.  Help  me  get  strong,  doctor,  and  then  George 
and  I  will  go,  as  Lot  fled  from  Sodom." 

*'Yes,  Mr.  Houghton,"  Dr.  Devoe  would  answer,  "all 
your  wishes  shall  be  carried  out;"  and  this  assurance 
would  pacify  the  old  man  for  a  time. 

When  alone  with  George  the  physician  would  add: 
"You  see  how  it  is,  my  young  friend.  Your  father  is  in 
such  a  feeble,  wavering  state  of  mind  and  body  that  we 
must  make  it  all  clear  sailing  for  him.  Even  if  he  asks  for 
what  is  impossible,  we  must  appear  to  gratify  him.  Any- 
thing which  disturbs  his  mind  will  be  injurious  to  his 
physical  health." 

George  could  not  but  admit  the  truth  of  the  doctor's 
words,  and  he  manfully  faced  his  duty,  hoping  that  the 
future  still  had  possibilities. 

After  getting  some  much-needed  sleep  the  day  following 
his  escape,  he  wrote: 

"My  dear  Captain  Bodine— If  I  had  known  you  better  your  letter  would 
not  have  been  such  an  agreeable  surprise.  Please  do  me  the  favor  not  to  over- 
estimate my  effort  for  you  and  those  with  you— an  effort  which  any  man  would 
have  made.  That  it  was  successful,  is  as  much  a  cause  for  gratitude  in  my 
own  case  as  in  yours.  Please  present  my  compliments  to  the  ladies,  and 
express  my  hope  that  they  suffered  no  ill  effects  from  their  hasty  exchange 
of  boats.  I  trust  that  the  stupid  boatman,  who  was  to  blame  for  your  dis- 
aster, will  not  attempt  to  navigate  anything  more  comphcated  than  a  wheel- 


CLOUDS   LIFTING  321 

barrow  hereafter.  I  regret  to  say  that  my  father  is  still  very  ill,  and  that  his 
physician  enjoins  the  utmost  care  and  quiet  until  he  recovers  from  his  nervous 
shock.     With  much  respect,  1  am,     Gratefully  yours, 

"George  Houghton." 

When  Ella's  physician  came  the  following  day,  he  found 
nis  patient  so  much  better  that  he  could  not  account  for  it 
until  he  had  heard  the  glad  news.  The  healthful,  elastic 
nature  of  the  girl  rallied  swiftly.  George's  second  letter  was 
handed  her  to  read,  and  she  kept  it.  Being  clever  with  her 
pencil,  she  made  a  ludicrous  caricature  of  the  colored  boat- 
man caught  in  a  gale  with  a  wheelbarrow.  Her  smile  was 
glad  now,  for  hope  grew  stronger  every  moment.  Her  right 
to  love  was  now  unquestioned,  and  even  her  proud  father 
and  cousin  had  only  words  of  respect  and  admiration  for 
the  lover  who,  in  a  few  brief  moments,  had  vindicated  the 
manhood  which  she  had  recognized  in  the  first  moments 
of  their  chance  encounter. 

She  could  not  believe  that  Mr.  Houghton  would  remain 
obdurate  when  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  think  the  matter 
over  calmly.  "Our  papas,"  she  thought,  with  a  little  sigh 
and  a  smile,  "have  learned  that  burying  their  children  is 
a  rather  serious  matter  after  all. ' ' 

When  two  or  three  days  passed,  however,  and  no  further 
communication  had  been  received  from  George,  her  father 
thought  it  wise  to  say  a  few  words  of  caution.  "Ella,"  he 
began,  "you  are  now  strong  enough  to  look  at  this  matter 
in  all  its  bearings.  Young  Mr.  Houghton  probably  finds 
that  his  father  is  as  adverse  to  his  thoughts  of  you  as  ever. 
He  has  himself  also  had  time  for  many  second  thoughts, 
and—" 

"Papa,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  reproachful  glance,  "you 
have  not  yet  learned  to  do  George  Houghton  justice.  At 
the  same  time  I  wish  neither  you  nor  any  one  else  to  give 
him  the  slightest  hint  of  my  feelings,  nor  to  say  anything 
to  him  of  my  illness  and  what  occurred  in  the  boat.  He 
asked  permission  to  pay  his  addresses,  and  he's  got  to  pay 
them,  principal  and  interest,  if  I  wait  till  I  am  as  gray  as 


322  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

you  are.  Dear  papa,  how  you  must  have  suffered!  To 
think  that  one's  hair  should  turn  white  so  soon!  Haven't 
1  got  a  little  gray,  too  ?" 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  but  the  late  after- 
noon sun  turned  her  light  tresses,  which  she  never  could 
keep  smooth,  into  an  aureole  of  gold. 

Mr.  Houghton  rallied  slowly,  but  grew  calmer  and  more 
rational  with  time.  He  wished  to  see  his  confidential  clerk 
on  business!  but  Dr.  Devoe  said  gently  but  firmly,  "Not 
yet."  He  began  to  permit,  however,  a  daily  written  state- 
ment from  the  office  that  all  was  going  well.  During  this 
convalescence  George  felt  that  he  must  take  no  middle 
course.  He  resolved  to  have  no  further  communication 
with  Captain  Bodine,  and  not  to  do  anything  which,  if  it 
came  to  his  father's  knowledge,  would  retard  his  recovery. 
One  thing,  however,  he  was  resolved  upon.  In  carrying 
out  his  father's  wishes  he  would  draw  the  line  at  an  ambi- 
tious alliance  at  the  North.  "Since  I  have  conquered  Cap- 
tain Bodine,"  he  muttered,  with  a  little  resolute  nod  of  his 
head:  "I  will  subdue  my  own  paternal  ancestor;  then  the 
way  will  be  open  for  a  siege  of  the  fair  citadel,  the  peerless 
little  baker.  No  wonder  her  cakes  seemed  all  sugar  and 
spice."  Thus  George  often  mused,  complacently  regard- 
less of  the  incongruous  terms  bestowed  upon  Ella  in  his 
thoughts. 

Sometimes  these  reveries  brought  smiles  to  his  face,  and 
more  than  once  he  started  and  flushed  as  he  observed  his 
father  looking  at  him  searchingly  yet  wistfully. 

Meanwhile  he  scarcely  left  the  old  man  night  or  day. 
He  slept  on  a  cot  by  his  side,  and  at  the  slightest  move- 
ment was  awake,  and  ready  to  anticipate  wishes  before  they 
could  be  spoken.  On  the  last  day  of  August  his  father  was 
well  enough  to  be  up  and  dressed  most  of  the  forenoon. 

George  began  to  read  the  beloved  Boston  papers,  but 
Mr.  Houghton  soon  said:  "That  will  do,  I'm  in  no  mood 
for  dog-day  politics.  Go  off  and  amuse  yourself,  as  long  as 
you  don't  go  near  the  harbor." 


CLOUDS    LIFTING  328 

"I've  no  wish  to  go  out,  father.  When  the  sun  is  low 
I'll  take  a  tramp  of  a  mile  or  two." 

"In  a  week  or  so  more  I  think  I'll   be  able  to  travel, 

George." 

"I  hope  so." 

"1  fear  you  don't  wish  to  leave  Charleston." 

"I  wish  to  do  what  is  best  for  your  health." 

Then  a  long  silence  followed,  each  busy  with  his  own 

thoughts. 

At  last  Mr.  Houghton  said:  ''It's  strange  we've  heard 
nothing  from  those  Bodines.  They  appear  to  accept  their 
lives  from  your  hand  as  a  matter  of  course;"  and  the  old 
man  watched  the  effect  of  these  tentative  words. 

G-eorge  flushed,  but  said  gently:  "Dear  father,  try  to 
be  just,  even  in  your  enmities.     I  have  heard  from  Captain 

Bodine,  and — " 

"What!  have  you  been  corresponding  with  them,  and 
all  that?"  interrupted  Mr.  Houghton  irritably.  "Why 
didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  merely  replied  to  Mr.  Bodine' s  note  the  day  after  the 
accident.  Since  then  I  have  not  heard  from  any  of  the  res- 
cued party,  nor  have  I  made  the  slightest  effort  to  do  so. 
Dr.  Devoe  said  you  required  quiet  of  body  and  mind,  and  I 
have  not  done  anything  which  would  interfere  with  this." 

"Thank  you,  my  boy,  thank  you  heartily.  I  shall  owe 
my  life  more  to  your  faithful  attendance  than  to  Dr.  Devoe." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  whether  it  is  true  or 
not.  I  wish  you  to  live  many  years,  and  to  take  the  rest  to 
which  a  long  and  laborious  life  entitles  you.  I  will  show 
you  Captain  Bodine's  letter  if  you  wish." 

"Well,  let  me  see  what  the  rebel  has  to  say  for  himself." 

"Humph!"  Mr.  Houghton  ejaculated,  finishing  the  let- 
ter.    "What  did  you  say  in  reply  ?" 

George  repeated  the  substance  of  his  note. 

"And  nothing  has  passed  between  him,  his  daugliter,' or 

you  since?" 

"Nothinoj  whatever." 


•824  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"1  suppose  by  this  time  that  little  gust  of  passion,  in- 
spired by  the  daughter's  pretty  face,  has  passed?"  and  he 
looked  at  his  son  keenly. 

"It  would  have  passed,  father,  if  it  had  been  only  a  gust 
of  passion,  and  inspired  merely  by  a  pretty  face." 

"Humph!    Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  love  her  still  ?" 
"I  cannot  control  my  heart,  only  my  actions." 
"You  will  give  her  up  then,  since  it  is  my  wish  ?" 
"I  cannot  give  up  loving  her,  father.     If  I  had  drowned 
and  gone  to  another  world  1  feel  that  I  would  have  carried 
my  love  with  me." 

There  was  another  long  silence,  and  then  Mr.  Houghton 
said,  "But  you  will  control  your  action?" 

"My  action,  father,  shall  be  guided  by  most  considerate 
loyalty  to  you." 

"But  you  will  not  promise  never  to  marry  her?" 
"It  is  true,  indeed,  that  I  may  never  marry  her,  for  I 
have  no  reason  whatever  to  think  that  she  cares  for  me  in 
any  such  way  as  I  do  for  her.  As  long  as  her  father  felt  as 
he  did,  I  could  not  approach  her.  As  long  as  you  feel  as 
you  do,  I  cannot  seek  her,  but  to  give  her  up  deliberately 
would  be  doing  violence  to  the  best  in  my  nature.  I  know 
my  love  is  the  same  as  that  which  you  had  for  mother,  and 
God  would  punish  a  man  who  tried  to  put  his  foot  on  such 
a  love.  1  feel  that  it  would  keep  me  from  the  evil  of  the 
world." 

"The  first  thing  you  know,  George,  you  will  be  wishing 
that  I  am  dead. ' ' 

"No,  father,  no!"  his  son  cried  impulsively.  "You 
would  do  me  wicked  wrong  in  thinking  that.  A  foolish, 
guilty  passion  might  probably  lead  to  such  thoughts,  but 
not  a  pure,  honest  love,  which  prompts  to  duty  in  every 
relation  in  life.  I  can  carry  out  your  every  plan  for  me 
without  bolstering  myself  by  marrying  wealth  and  position. 
My  self-respect  revolts  at  the  idea.  A  woman  that  I  loved 
could  aid  me  far  more  than  the  wealthiest  and  highest  born 
in  the  land.    I  believe  that  in  time  you  will  see  these  things 


CLOUDS   LIFTING  325 

as  I  cannot  help  seeing  them.  Until  then  I  can  be  patient. 
I  certainly  will  not  jeopardize  your  health  by  doing  what  is 
contrary  to  your  wishes.  Don't  you  think  we  had  better 
drop  the  subject  for  the  present?" 

"Yes,  I  think  we  had,"  said  Mr.  Houghton  sadly,  but 
without  any  appearance  of  irritation. 


^26  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


(( 


YES,    VILET 


WITH  the  exception  of  Aian'  Sheba's  household,  the 
final  days  of  August  were  passing  quietly  and 
uneventfully  to  the  other  characters  of  our  story. 
Little  Yilet  had  received  something  like  a  sunstroke,  and 
she  never  rallied.  Day  and  night  she  lay  on  her  cot,  usually 
wakeful  and  always  patient.  It  would  seem  that  her  vital 
forces  were  sapped,  for  she  grew  steadily  weaker  and 
thinner.  Aun'  Sheba  did  little  else  than  wait  on  and 
watch  her,  except  when  Kern  was  home.  When  off  duty 
at  the  fire  department,  he  would  permit  no  one  else  to  do 
anything  for  his  child  but  himself.  The  little  girl  preferred 
his  attendance  even  to  that  of  her  mother,  and  the  strong 
man  would  carry  her  up  and  down  his  little  yard  in  the 
cool  night  air  by  the  hour,  or  rock  her  to  sleep  on  his  breast 
when  the  sun  was  high.  No  touch  was  so  gentle  as  his,  or 
so  soothing.  He  would  hush  his  great,  mellow  voice  into 
^o£t,  melodious  tones  as  he  sung  her  favorite  hymns,  and 
often  her  feeble  treble  would  blend  with  his  rich  baritone. 
He  yearned  over  her  with  inexpressible  tenderness,  count- 
ing the  minutes  when  on  duty  till  the  hour  came  which 
permitted  his  return. 

In  his  agony  of  apprehension  "his  flesh  jes  drap  off'n 
him,"  as  Aun'  Sheba  and  his  wife  said.  He  slept  little  and 
ate  little,  but  was  always  punctual  at  the  engine-house  to 
the  minute. 

Mara  and  Ella  visited  the  child  daily,  and  tried  to  tempt 
her  failing  appetite  with  delicacies.     Sissy,  Vilet's  mother, 


''YES,    VILET"  327 

hovered  about  her  child  most  of  the  time,  when  her  house- 
keeping duties  and  the  care  of  the  other  children  permitted, 
but  after  all  her  chief  solicitude  centred  in  her  husband. 
She  and  Aun'  Sheba  often  said,  "Kern,  ef  de  Lawd  wants 
her  we  mus  jes  gib  her  up.  De  Hebenlj  Fader  hab  de  fust 
right." 

"I  hab  my  feelins  all  de  same,"  Kern  would  reply.  "Ef 
de  Lawd  put  sech  feelins  in  my  heart  I  can't  help  it." 

On  the  evening  of  the  31st  of  August,  Vilet  was  very 
feeble.  The  closeness  and  heat  oppressed  her.  All,  ex- 
cept Uncle  Sheba,  made  a  poor  pretence  of  supper.  Noth- 
ing affected  his  appetite,  and,  having  cleared  the  table,  he 
went  over  to  his  own  doorstep  and  lighted  his  pipe.  Before 
it  was  finished  he  was  dozing  comfortably  against  the  door- 
case. Aun'  Sheba,  with  a  great  sigh,  lighted  her  pipe  also, 
and  sat  down  on  the  Watson  steps  with  her  daughter  that 
they  might  breathe  cooler  air.  Kern  took  up  his  little 
daughter,  and  began  to  walk  in  the  yard  and  sing  as  usual. 

"Well,"  ejaculated  Aun'  Sheba,  "Missy  Mara's  call  yis- 
tidy  'lieve  my  min'  po'ful.  I'se  couldn't  tromp  de  streets 
wid  a  basket  now  nohow.  Missy  Mara  say  she  won'  begin 
bakin'  till  I'm  ready.  She  look  too  po'ly  to  tink  ob  it 
hersef.  Lor !  what  a  narrow  graze  she  an  de  res  ob  dem 
hab!  No  won'er  she  all  broken  up.  Dat  awful  'scape 
keeps  runnin  ebin  in  my  dreams.  Bress  de  good  Lawd  dat 
brung  Marse  Houghton  right  dar  in  time!" 

"Missy  Ella  an'  Marse  Houghton  oughter  hab  dey  own 
way  now,  shuah,"  Sissy  remarked. 

"I  reckon  dey  will,"  Aun'  Sheba  answered.  "Missy 
Ella  look  kin'er  dat-a-way.  Dey  was  all  agin  her  'fore  de 
ax'dent,  but  now  I  reckon  dey's  all  cabed  in,  from  what 
she  says,  eben  ef  she  ain't  talkin'  much.  I  'specs  ole  man 
Houghton  is  de  mos'  sot;"  and  then  their  anxious  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  sick  child. 

"Daddy,"  said  Yilet,  when  her  father  bad  finished  a 
hymn,  "I  wants  ter  talk  wid  you." 

"Well,  chile,  wot  you  wants  ter  say?" 


328  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

*'I  wants  you  ter  let  me  go  to  Hebin,  daddy." 

"I  doesn't  feel  dat  I  kin  spar'  you,  Vilet,"  and  she  felt 
his  tears  dropping  on  her  cheeks. 

''Yes,  daddy,  you  kin,  fer  a  little  while.  I'se  gittin'  so-o 
tired,"  and  she  sighed  wearily,  "an'  you'se  gittin'  all  worn 
out  too." 

"No,  deah  chile,  I'd  ruder  tote  you  all  de  res'  ob  my 
bawn  days.  I  couldn't  stan'  comin' -home  an'  not  fin'  you 
lookin'  fer  me  nohow." 

Vilet  thought  a  while  in  silence  and  then  said,  "Daddy, 
I'se  keep  a-lookin'  fer  you  jes  de  same.  I'se  gwine  ter  ax 
de  good  Lawd  ter  gib  me  a  little  place  on  de  wall  near  de 
pearly  gate,  an'  dar  I'se  watch  an'  wait  till  you  come,  an' 
moder,  an'  granny  all  come.  I  kin  watch  bettah  up  dar, 
fer  I  won'  be  so  bery,  bery  tired.  Won'  you  let  me  go  ? 
'Pears  I  couldn't  go  to  Hebin  widout  you  says,  'Yes, 
Vilet.'  " 

The  man's  powerful  frame  trembled  like  an  aspen;  con- 
vulsive sobs  heaved  his  breast  as  he  carried  the  child  to  the 
further  corner  of  the  yard.  At  last  he  buried  his  face  in 
her  neck  and  whispered,   "Yes,    Vilet." 

"Dat's  good  an'  kin'  ob  you,  daddy.  You  fin'  me 
waitin'   and  lookin'   fer  you,   shuah." 

Kern  grew  calm  after  his  mighty  struggle,  and,  in  his 
simple  faith,  believed  that  angels  were  around  him,  ready 
to  take  his  child  when  he  should  lay  her  down.  He  began 
to  sing  again,  and,  a  little  before  nine  o'clock,  repaired  to 
his  post  of  duty. 

As  the  days  passed  without  any  further  communication 
from  Houghton  whatever,  Ella's  first  glow  of  hope  began 
to  pale.  She  tried  to  banish  all  other  thoughts  except  that 
Mr.  Houghton  was  very  ill  or  as  obdurate  as  ever.  On  the 
last  day  of  August,  however,  she  heard  a  rumor  that  the 
invalid  was  better,  and  that  his  son  was  soon  to  take  him 
North.  Then  her  faith  began  to  falter.  If  George  should 
go  away  without  seeing  her,  without  a  word  or  a  line,  what 
must  she  think?     The  tears  would  come  at  this  possibility. 


**YES,    VILET"  829 

She  had  noted  that  her  father  and  cousin  had  ceased  to 
speak  of  him,  and  that  their  bearing  toward  her  was  very 
gentle,  giving  her  the  impression  of  that  deep  yet  delicate 
sympathy  which  is  felt  for  one  destined  to  pass  through  a 
very  painful  ordeal. 

On  the  evening  of  this  miserable  day  she  yielded,  for  the 
first  time,  to  great  dejection,  and  was  about  to  retire  to  her 
room  early  when  Mrs.  Bodine  said  kindly,  "Don't  go  away, 
Ella.  I  feel  strangely  oppressed,  as  if  I  could  scarcely 
breathe." 

"I  feel  oppressed  too.  Cousin  Sophy." 

"Yes,  dear  child,  I  know  you  are  grieving.  I  wish  I 
could  help  you." 

"Oh,  Cousin  Sophy,  it  would  be  so  much  harder  to  bear 
now!  He  looked  so  grand  as  he  loomed  up  in  the  gloom  of 
that  terrible  night!  His  eyes  seemed  like  living  coals;  his 
action  was  swift  and  decided,  showing  that  his  mind  was  as 
clear  as  his  courage  was  high.  He  seemed  to  take  in  every- 
thing at  a  glance,  and  in  breaking  my  hold  of  papa's  hand 
he  almost  the  same  as  saved  my  life  twice.  And  then  his 
leap  into  the  sinking  boat,  and  the  almost  giant  strength 
with  which  he  flung  papa  into  his  own! — oh,  I  see  it  all  so 
often,  and  my  heart  always  seems  to  go  down  with  him 
when,  in  fancy,  I  see  him  sink.  It  was  all  so  heroic,  so  in 
accord  with  my  ideal  of  a  man!  Why,  Cousin  Sophy,  he 
was  so  sensible  about  it  all!  He  did  I'ust  the  right  thing 
and  the  only  thing  that  could  be  done,  except  that  horrid 
sinking.  I  can't  help  feeling  that  if  he  had  got  into  the 
boat  with  us  all  would  have  come  about  right.  Oh,  that 
stupid,  cowardly  negro  boatman!  Well,  well,  somehow  I 
fear  to-night  that  I've  only  been  saved  to  suSer  a  heartache 
all  my  life." 

"I  hope  not,  Ella  dear.  I  cannot  think  so.  God  rarely 
permits  to  any  life  either  unalloyed  suffering  or  happiness." 

"There,  Cousin  Sophy,  I'm  forgetting  that  you  are  suf- 
fering now.  I'll  put  on  my  wrapper,  and  then  fan  you  till 
you  get  asleep." 


380  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

The  captain  meantime  was  solacing  himself  with  thoughts 
of  Mara — thoughts  not  wholly  devoid  of  anxiety,  for  she  ap- 
peared to  be  growing  thin  and  losing  strength  in  spite  of  her 
assurances  to  the  contrary. 

Mr.  Houghton  had  not  been  so  well  in  the  afternoon  and 
evening,  and  George  did  not  leave  him.  As  the  evening 
advanced  the  sultriness  increased.  Since  his  father  seemed 
quiet,  and  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  he  installed  Jube  in  his 
place  with  the  fan,  and  went  out  into  the  open  air.  He 
found,  with  surprise,  that  he  obtained  scarcely  any  relief 
from  the  extreme  closeness  which  bad  oppressed  him  in- 
doors. He  threw  off  even  the  light  coat  he  wore,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  gravel  roadway  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves with  the  restlessness  which  great  heat  imparts  to 
the  full-blooded  and  strong.  Sam  sat  near  the  barn-door, 
smoking  his  pipe.  At  last  he  said,  ''Marse  George,  'spose 
1  took  out  de  bosses  an  let  dem  stan  in  de  open." 

"What's  the  matter  with  them  ?" 

"Dunno,  'less  it's  de  po'ful  heat.     Dey's  bery  oneasy. '' 

"All  right.     Tie  them  outside  here." 

At  this  moment  the  watch-dog  gave  a  long,  piteous  howl, 
and  crept  into  his  kennel. 

"That's  queer,"  George  remarked.  "What's  the  matter 
with  the  dog?" 

"Pears  as  ebery ting's  gettin  quar  dis  ebnin,"  Sam  re- 
plied, knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  rising.  "  You'se 
pinter  dar's  been  kin  ob  scrugin  up  agin  me,  an  he  neber  do 
dat  befo'.  Now  he's  right  twixt  you'se  legs  es  if  he  was 
feerd  on  someting. " 

George  caressed  the  dog,  and  said:  "What's  up,  old  fel- 
low?" and  then  was  perplexed  that,  instead  of  answering 
him  with  wonted  playfulness,  the  poor  brute  should  begin 
to  whine  and  yelp.  The  horses  came  out  as  if  escaping 
from  their  stalls,  but  on  reaching  the  door  sniffed  the  ai?; 
stopped,  and  seemed  reluctant  to  go  further. 

"Dey's  eider  gone  crazy,  or  sump'n  gwine  ter  happen,'* 
Sam  affirmed,  looking  up  and  around  uneasily. 


''YES,    VILET''  331 

At  this  moment  the  pointer  broke  away  from  George's 
caressing  hand,  and  with  a  howl  such  as  he  had  never  been 
heard  to  utter,  slunk  away  and  disappeared. 

"I  declare,  Sam,  1  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it  all. 
The  air  is  getting  so  hot  and  close  that  1  can  scarcely 
breathe." 

The  horses  now  came  out  hastily,  and  began  to  snort 
and  whinny.  Then  they  put  their  heads  over  Sam's  shoul- 
der, with  that  instinct  to  seek  human  protection  often  noted 
in  domestic  animals. 

"Marse  George,  dey  is  sump'n  gwine  ter  happen.  See 
dese  bosses  yere;  see  ole  Brune  dar.  He  darsn't  stay  in 
de  ken'l  an'  he  darsn't  stay  out.  Eeah  how  oder  dogs  is 
howlin.  Dey  is  sump'n  gwine  ter —  O  good  Lawd!  what's 
datV" 

George's  nerves  were  healthy  and  strong,  but  his  hair 
rose  on  his  head  and  his  knees  smote  for  a  second  as  he 
heard  what  seemed  a  low,  ominous  roar.  Having  a  con- 
fused impression  that  the  sound  came  from  the  street  he 
rushed  toward  it,  but  by  the  time  he  reached  the  front  of 
the  house  the  awful  sound  had  grown  into  a  thunder  peal 
which  was  in  the  earth  beneath  and  the  air  above.  Obey- 
ing the  impulse  to  reach  his  father,  he  sprung  up  the  steps 
and  dashed  through  the  open  door.  As  he  did  so -the  solid 
mansion  rocked  like  a  skiff  at  sea;  the  heavy  portico  under 
which  he  had  just  passed  fell  with  a  terrific  crash;  all  lights 
went  out;  while  he,  stunned  and  bleeding  from  the  falling 
plaster,  clung  desperately  to  the  banisters,  still  seeking  to 
reach  his  father. 


832  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE   EARTHQUAKE 

OWEN  CLANCY  was  also  leading  a  dual  life,  and 
when,  at  times,  conscience  compelled  introspec- 
tion, he  was  ill  at  ease,  for  he  could  not  fail  to 
recognize  that  his  sinister  side  was  gaining  ascendency. 
With  a  feeling  bordering  on  recklessness  he  banished  com- 
punctions, and  yielded  himself  more  completely  to  the  in- 
spiration of  ambition  and  the  fascinations  of  Miss  Aihsley. 
It  had  become  evident  that  Mara  was  either  engaged  to 
Bodine  or  soon  would  be,  and  the  thought  imbittered  and 
hardened  his  nature.  He  gave  the  day  to  business,  and  in 
the  evening  was  rarely  absent  from  Miss  Ainsley's  side. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  had  invited  a  small  whist  party  to  meet 
at  her  house  on  the  evening  of  the  31st,  and  Clancy  of  course 
was  among  the  number. 

Before  sitting  down  to  their  games  there  was  some  desul- 
tory conversation,  of  which  young  Houghton's  exploit  was 
the  principal  theme.  Mrs.  Willoughby  was  enthusiastic  in 
his  praise,  and  even  the  most  prejudiced  yielded  assent  to 
her  words.  Equally  strong  in  their  commendation  were 
Miss  Ainsley  and  Clancy,  and  the  latter,  who  had  called 
on  Houghton,  explained  how  admirably  he  had  managed 
his  boat  in  effecting  the  rescue,  and  related  the  incidents 
of  his  narrrow  escape.  Although  there  had  been  no  pub- 
lished record  of  the  affair,  the  main  particulars  had  become 
very  generally  known,  and  the  tide  of  public  favor  was  turn- 
ing rapidly  toward  Houghton,  for  the  act  was  one  that  would 
especially  commend  itself  to  a  brave  people.     Of  the  secret 


THE    EARTHQUAKE  333 

and  inner  history,  known  only  to  herself,  Mrs.  Willoughby 
did  not  speak,  and  in  all  comment  a  sharp  line  of  division 
was  drawn  between  George  and  his  father. 

Then  conversation  turned  upon  the  slight  earthquake 
tremor  which  had  been  experienced  in  Charleston  and  Sum- 
merville  on  the  previous  Friday.  This  phenomenon,  scarcely 
noticed  at  the  time  and  awakening  no  especial  alarm,  had 
been  brought  into  greater  prominence  by  the  very  serious 
disturbances  in  Greece  on  the  following  day,  August  29, 
and  some  theories  as  to  the  causes  were  briefly  and  lan- 
guidly discussed. 

Then  Clancy  remarked  lightly,  "We  had  our  share  of 
disaster  in  the  last  August's  cyclone.  Lightning  doesn't 
strike  twice  m  the  same  place.  The  jar  of  Friday  was  only 
a  little  sympathetic  symptom  in  old  mother  Earth,  who,  like 
other  mothers  and  women  in  general,  are  said  to  be  subject 
to  nervous  attacks.     Suppose  we  settle  down  to  our  games." 

"Nervous  attacks  in  mother  Earth  and  mother  Eve's 
daughters  are  serious  affairs,  I'd  have  you  understand,  Mr. 
Clancy,"  laughed  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

"And  very  mysterious,"  he  added.  "Who  can  account 
for  either?" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  they  should  be  accounted  for 
in  our  case,"  Miss  Ainsley  remarked.  "Woman  should 
always  remain  a  mystery." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  she  must  so  remain  in  her  deepest  na- 
ture," he  replied,  sotto  voce,  "but  is  there  any  need  for  small 

secrecies  ?  " 

"That  question  would  have  to  be  explained  before  I 
could  answer  it.     Will  you  deal?" 

He  was  her  partner.  They  played  quietly  for  an  hour, 
and  then  the  wife  of  the  gentleman  opposed  to  them  rose 
and  said:  "The  heat  is  so  great  I  shall  have  to  be  excused" ; 
and,  with  her  husband,  she  bade  Mrs.  Willoughby  good- 
night. 

Clancy  and  Miss  Ainsley  repaired  to  the  balcony,  the 
latter  taking  her  favorite  seat,  and  leaning  her  head  against 


384  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

the  ivy-entwined  pillar.  She  knew  the  advantages  of  this 
locality,  for  while  she  was  hidden  from  the  occupants  of  the 
parlor,  the  light  shone  through  the  open  French  windows  in 
sufficient  degree  to  reveal  the  graceful  outlines  of  her  per- 
son, which  was  draped  as  scantily  on  that  hot  night  as 
fashion  permitted. 

*'How  stifling  the  air  is!"  she  remarked.  "I'm  glad  to 
escape  from  the  lighted  room,  yet  am  surprised  that  we 
obtain  so  little  relief  out  here." 

"It  is  strange,"  Clancy  replied.  "I  scarcely  remember 
such  a  sultry  evening.  From  what  I've  read  I  should  be 
inclined  to  think  it  was  an  earthquake  atmosphere,  or  else 
that  it  portended  a  storm. ' ' 

"Now  don't  croak,"  she  said.  "The  stars  are  shining, 
and  there  is  no  sign  of  a  storm.  You  have  already  proved 
that  an  earthquake  cannot  occur.  You  know  the  old  saying 
about  worry  over  what  never  happens.  The  true  way  to 
enjoy  life  is  to  take  the  best  you  can  get  out  of  it  each  day 
as  it  comes.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"A  very  embarrasing  question  if  I  should  answer  it  hon- 
estly," he  replied,  laughing. 

"How  so?"  Never  had  the  brilliant  fire  in  her  eyes 
been  so  soft  and  alluring.  She  had  detected  a  slight  tremor 
in  his  voice,  and  had  seen  an  answering  fire  in  his  eyes. 
Although  conscious  of  a  rising  and  delicious  excitement 
in  her  own  veins,  she  believed  from  much  experience  that 
in  her  perfect  self-control  she  could  prevent  him  from  say- 
ing too  much.  Even  if  he  did  overstep  the  liberal  bounds 
which  she  was  willing  to  accord,  she  thought,  "I  can  rally 
him  back  into  our  old  relations  if  I  so  wish." 

What  she  did  wish,  she  scarcely  knew  herself,  and  the 
thought  passed  through  her  mind,  "I  may  accept  him  after 

all." 

He  shared  her  mood,  with  the  exception  that  he  had 
decided  long  since  to  obtain  her  hand  if  she  was  disposed 
to  give  it.  To-night,  more  than  ever,  he  felt  the  reckless- 
ness which  had  been  growing  upon  him,  and  was  inclined 


THE   EARTHQUAKE  335 

to  follow  her  lead  to  the  utmost,  even  warily  to  go  beyond 
such  encouragement  as  he  might  receive.  He  therefore  re- 
plied vaguely,  "One  may  wish  the  best  m  life,  and  not  be 
able  to  obtain  it." 

"1  see  nothing  embarrassing  in  that  commonplace  re- 
mark. ' ' 

"There  might  be  in  its  application.'* 

"Possibly.  Who  knows  to  what  one  and  one  make  two 
might  lead?— a  murder,  like  enough." 

"Sometimes  one  and  one  make  one.*' 

"How  odd  I  Still  more  so,  that  you  should  indulge  in 
abstruse  mathematics  this  hot  night." 

"That  reminds  me  that  a  man  is  said  to  be  merely  a  vul- 
gar fraction  till  he  is  married,  when  he  is  redeemed  into 
a  whole  number." 

"If  I  were  equal  to  it,  I'd  get  a  pencil,  and  preserve  such 
great  nuggets  of  abstract  truth." 

"When  you  are  so  concretely  and  distractingly  enchant- 
ing, what  other  refuge  is  there  for  a  man  than  the  abstract  ?" 

"Is  the  abstract  a  refuge?"  she  asked,  looking  dreamily 
out  over  the  dark  waters  of  the  harbor.  "Perhaps  it  is. 
It  certainly  suggests  coolness  which  should  be  grateful  to- 
night. "  Then  turning,  and  with  a  mirthful  and  provoking 
gleam  in  her  eyes,  he  remarked,  "I  should  think  this  weather 
would  be  just  to  your  taste." 

"Why  so?" 

"Oh,  you  have  become  enough  of  a  Yankee  to  guess." 

"Would  you  say  that  even  this  furnace- like  air  cannot 
quicken  my  blood  ?" 

"My  friend,  I  do  not  believe  that  anything  could  quicken 
your  pulse  one  beat." 

"I'll  demonstrate  the  contrary,"  he  said,  with  a  quick 
flash  in  his  eyes.     "Put  your  finger  on  my  pulse." 

She  laughingly  did  so.  By  a  slight,  quick  movement  he 
clasped  her  hand,  and  it  appeared  to  him  that  the  passion 
which  he  knew  to  be  in  his  face  was  reflected  in  hers.  She 
did  not  withdraw  her  hand.     For  an  instant  there  was  a 


836  THE  EARTH   TREMBLED 

subtle,  swift  interchange  of  thought.  She  saw  he  was  about 
to  speak  plainly,  passionately;  she  felt  herself  yielding  as 
never  before  in  all  her  experience.  It  was  as  if  a  wave  of 
emotion  was  lifting  and  sweeping  her  away.  He  held  her 
eyes;  a  smile  began  to  part  her  lips;  the  thought  came  to 
him  that  words  were  not  essential,  that  she  was  giving  her- 
self to  him  through  the  agency  of  the  brilliant  eyes  which 
at  the  first  had  awakened  his  wondering  surmises.  He 
gently  drew  her  to  her  feet,  and  she  did  not  resist. 
He  bent  toward  her  that  he  might  look  deeper  into  her 
rosy  face,  and  felt  her  sweet  breath  coming  quickly  against 
his  cheek.  Then,  as  his  lips  parted  to  speak,  a  low,  deep 
sound  far  to  the  southeast  caught  his  attention.  Still  clasp- 
ing hands  they  faced  it.  With  awful  rapidity  it  approached, 
increasing,  deepening,  pervading  the  air  to  the  sky,  bellow- 
ing as  if  from  the  centre  of  the  earth,  filling  their  ears  with 
its  unutterable  and  penetrating  power,  and  appalling  their 
hearts  by  its  supernatural  weirdness.  They  shrank  before 
it  down  the  balcony  and  through  the  window  into  the 
drawing-room,  cowering,  trembling,  speechless. 

They  were  scarcely  within  the  apartment  before  the 
large,  substantial  mansion  rocked  as  if  it  had  been  a  cork, 
and  the  waters  of  the  harbor  had  passed  under  it.  The  bal- 
cony on  which  they  had  stood  an  instant  before  went  down, 
leaving  gaping  darkness  in  its  place. 

With  an  agonized  shriek  Miss  Ainsley  threw  her  arms 
about  Clancy.  As  with  uncertain  footing  he  sought  to 
place  her  on  a  sofa  they  were  both  thrown  violently  upon 
it.  He  saw  the  chandeler  swaying  to  and  fro,  as  if  a  thou- 
sand lights  were  dancing  before  his  eyes;  saw  the  other 
guests  staggering  and  falling.  Statuettes,  bric-a-brac,  and 
articles  of  furniture  came  crashing  down;  part  of  the  ceiling 
fell  with  a  thud,  raising  a  stifling  dust,  which,  choking  the 
shrieking  voices,  rendered  more  distinct  the  grinding  sound, 
as  walls  of  solid  masonry  drew  apart,  gaped,  and  closed 
under  the  impulse  of  immeasurable  power. 

Above  all  rose  the  mysterious  thunder,  which  was  not 


THE   EARTHQUAKE  337 

thunder,  because  now  it  seemed  to  come  from  unknown 
depths.  Time  is  but  relative,  and  the  occupants  of  the 
room  felt  as  if  thej  were  passing  through  an  eternity 
of  agony. 

The  climax  of  horror  was  reached  when  the  gas  was  ex- 
tinguished, and  all  were  left  in  pitchy  darkness.  It  seemed 
as  if  reason  itself  would  go,  but  as  suddenly  as  the  convul- 
sion had  begun,  it  ceased.  There  was  a  second  or  two  of 
breathless  waiting,  and  then  Clancy  shouted,  "Come,  quick. 
There  may  be  another  shock." 

With  his  right  hand  he  struck  a  match,  and,  supporting 
Miss  Ainsley  by  his  left  arm,  led  the  way. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  gasped. 

*'An  earthquake.  Come;  courage.  We  must  get  away 
from  all  buildings."  Half  lifting  her,  he  swiftly  sought  the 
street,  and  then  the  adjacent  open  ground  of  the  Battery. 

'*A11  here?"  he  asked,  panting,  and  looking  around. 
The  others  soon  appeared,  Mr.  Willoughby  coming  last, 
and  carrying  his  half-fainting  wife.  The  negro  servants 
had  peceded,  and  were  already  on  their  knees,  groaning  and 
praying.     From  every  side  other  fugitives  were  pouring  in. 

"Miss  Ainsley,  you  are  with  friends  and  as  safe  here  as 
you  can  be  anywhere,"  Clancy  said  hastily.  "There  are 
others  in  the  heart  of  the  city,"  and  he  dashed  away, 
regardless  of  her  appealing  cry  to  return. 

As  Clancy  rushed  up  Meeting  Street  he  felt  that  any 
moment  might  be  his  last,  and  yet  he  was  more  appalled 
at  himself  than  at  the  awful  sights  about  him.  The  human 
mind  in  such  crises  is  endowed  with  wonderful  capacity.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  eyes  took  in  all  details  as  he  passed, 
and  that  his  brain  comprehended  them.  People  were  rush- 
ing from  their  homes,  or  carrying  oat  the  feeble  and  in- 
jured. His  way  was  impeded  by  fugitives,  whose  faces 
were  seen  by  the  street-lamps  to  be  ghastly  pale  and  horror- 
stricken.  The  awful  impression  of  the  final  day  of  doom 
was  heightened  by  the  comparative  nudity  of  many,  both 
men  and  women;  and  among  the  multitudinous  images  pass- 

0— Roe— XV 


338  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

ing  through  Clancy's  mind  was  a  picture  of  the  Judgment 
Day  by  one  of  the  old  masters,  with  its  naked,  writhing. 

human  forms. 

The  air  was  resonant  with  every  tone  of  anguish,  hoarse 
shoutings,  shrill  screams,  and  the  plaintive  cries  of  children. 
Above  all  other  sounds  articulate  and  inarticulate  was  heard 
the  word  *'God,"  as  the  stricken  people  appealed  to  Him, 
some  on  their  knees,  others  as  they  stood  dazed  and  almost 
paralyzed,  and  others  still  as  they  rushed  toward  open  places 

for  safety. 

*'Yes,  God,"  muttered  Clancy.  ''May  He  forgive  me  for 
having  forgotten  Him!  There  are  but  two  thoughts  left  in 
this  wreck,  God  and  Mara.  How  unworthy  were  my  recent 
motives  and  passion  I  How  unlike  the  love  which  leads  me 
inevitably  to  breathe  the  name  of  Mara  in  my  appeal  to 
God  I" 


''GOD''  339 


CHAPTEE  XL 


god" 


HAD  Mara's  heart  been  hers  to  keep  or  to  give  when 
she  met  Bodine,  she  could  easily  have  learned  to 
love  him  for  his  own  sake.  Mrs.  Bodine's  impres- 
sion was  well  founded,  that  Mara,  unlike  most  girls,  was 
suited  to  such  an  alliance.  The  trouble  was,  that,  before 
Bodine  became  friend,  then  lover,  she  had  given  to  Clancy 
what  she  could  not  recall,  although  she  strove  to  do  so  with 
a  will  singularly  resolute,  and  from  the  strongest  convictions 
of  hopeless  discord  between  him  and  herself.  With  the  pur- 
pose to  make  her  father's  friend  happy  was  also  blended  the 
powerful  motive  to  extricate  herself.  She  had  felt  that  she 
must  tear  up  by  the  roots  the  affection  which  had  been  grow- 
ing for  years  before  she  had  recognized  it,  and  at  times,  as 
we  have  seen,  thought  it  was  yielding  to  the  unrelenting 
grasp  of  her  will.  Again,  discouraged  and  appalled  by  its 
hold  upon  every  fibre  of  her  being,  she  would  recognize 
how  futile  had  been  her  efforts.  She  could  not,  like  many 
others,  divert  her  thoughts  and  preoccupy  her  mind  by 
various  considerations  apart  from  the  truth  that  she  had 
promised  to  marry  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love.  Al- 
though so  warped,  her  nature  was  too  simple,  too  concen- 
trated, to  permit  any  weak  drifting  toward  events.  She 
believed  that  her  life  had  narrowed  down  to  Bodine,  and 
she  had  decided  to  become  his  devoted  wife  at  every  cost 
to  herself.  How  great  that  cost  would  be  she  was  learning 
sadly,  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour.  As  we  know,  she 
had  permitted  Bodine  to  learn  her  purpose  at  a  time  of 


840  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

excitement  and  enthusiasm— at  a  time  when  his  profound 
distress  touched  her  deepest  sympathies.  She  had  also 
hoped,  that,  when  the  irrevocable  words  had  been  spoken 
on  each  side,  the  calm  of  fixed  purpose  and  certainty  would 
fall  upon  her  spirit. 

She  had  been  disappointed.  She  trembled  with  a  strange 
dread  whenever  she  recalled  the  moment  when  Bodine  drew 
her  to  himself,  conscious  now  of  a  truth,  before  unknown, 
that  there  was  something  in  her  nature -not  amenable  to 
enthusiasm,  spiritual  exaltation,  or  her  passion  for  self- 
sacrifice— something  that  would  not  shrink  from  death  for 
his  sake  yet  which  did  shrink  from  his  kisses  upon  her  lips. 

Never  had  she  suffered  as  during  the  last  few  days,  for 
she  was  being  taught  by  the  inexorable  logic  of  facts  and 
events.  In  Ella's  crystal  nature  she  saw  what  her  own  love 
should  be,  and  might  have  been.  She  had  witnessed  the 
girl's  wild  impulse  to  follow  her  lover  to  the  depths  of  the 
harbor,  and  her  own  heart  gave  swift  interpretation.  She 
was  alive  because  a  Northern  boy,  deemed  incapable  of 
anything  better  than  selfish,  reckless  love-making,  had  un- 
hesitatingly risked  his  life  to  save  one  who  had  spurned 
him.  Even  Mrs.  Hunter's  prejudice  had  been  compelled 
to  yield,  and  she  to  admit  the  young  fellow's  nobility,  of 
which  she  was  a  living  proof.  The  wretched  thought 
haunted  Mara  that  Owen  Clancy,  unblinded,  had  discov- 
ered for  himself,  what  had  been  forced  upon  her,  that 
there  were  Northern  people  with  whom  he  could  gladly 
affiliate.  The  shadow  of  death  had  not  been  so  dark  and 
baleful  as  the  shadow  of  the  past  in  which  she  so  long  had 
dwelt,  for  in  the  former  there  had  been  light  enough  to 
reveal  the  folly  and  injustice  of  indiscriminating  prejudice 
and  enmity.  Worse  than  all  these  thoughts,  piercing  like 
shafts  of  light  the  darkness  which  had  obscured  her  judg- 
ment, was  the  truth,  upon  which  she  could  not  reason,  that 
she  shrunk  with  an  ever-increasing  dread  from  words  and 
acts  of  love  unprompted  by  her  heart. 

Like  a  rock,  however,  amid  all  this  chaos— this  breaking 


*'OOD''  841 

up  of  the  old  which  left  nothing  stable  in  its  place — re- 
mained her  purpose  to  go  forward.  On  this  evening  which 
was  to  witness  a  wilder  chaos  than  that  of  her  long-repressed 
yet  passionate  heart,  she  had  said  sternly,  *'My  word  has 
been  passed,  my  honor  is  involved,  and  he  shall  never  learn 
that  1  have  trembled  and  faltered." 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  retired,  overcome  by  the  heat,  and, 
believing  that  she  could  endure  the  sultriness  better  in  the 
little  parlor,  Mara  had  turned  down  the  gas,  and  was  sitting 
by  an  open  window.  The  city  seemed  singularly  quiet. 
The  street  on  which  she  dwelt  contained  a  large  popula- 
tion, yet  the  steps  on  the  pavement  were  comparatively 
few.  Her  own  languor  was  general,  and  people  sought 
refuge  in  the  seclusion  and  the  undress  permitted  in  their 
own  homes. 

In  a  vague,  half- conscious  way  she  wondered  that  a  large 
city  could  be  so  still  at  that  hour.  "Like  myself,"  she  mur- 
mured, "it  is  half  shrouded  in  gloom  and  gives  but  slight 
hint  of  much  that  is  hidden,  that  ever  must  be  hidden. — i 
wonder  where  he  is  to-night.  Oh,  I've  no  right  to  think 
of  him  at  all.  Why  can't  I  say,  'Stop,'  and  end  it? — this 
miserable  stealing  away  of  my  thoughts  until  will,  like  a 
jailer,  pursues  and  drags  them  back.  Why  should  a  pre- 
sentiment of  danger  to  him  weigh  down  my  spirit  to-night? 
What  other  peril  can  he  be  exposed  to  except  that  of  marry- 
ing a  beauty  and  an  heiress  ?  Ah!  peril  enough,  if  his  heart 
shrinks  like  mine.  Here,  now,  quit,''  and  the  word  came 
sharply  and  angrily  in  her  self-condemnation. 

Then  in  the  silence  began  that  distant  groan  of  nature. 
It  was  so  distinct,  so  unlike  anything  she  had  ever  heard  in 
its  horrible  suggestion  of  all  physical  evil  that  she  shrank 
from  the  window  overwhelmed  by  a  nameless  dread.  In- 
stinctively she  turned  up  the  gas,  that  she  might  not  face 
the  terror  in  darkness.  As  she  did  so  she  thought  of  the 
rush  and  roar  of  the  last  year's  cyclone,  but  in  the  next 
breath  learned  that  this  was  something  infinitely  worse — 
what,  she  was  too  confused  and  terrified  to  imagine.     Then 


342  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

she  was  thrown  to  the  floor.  Raising  herself  partially  on 
a  chair  she  witnessed  an  event  which  paralyzed  her  with 
horror.  The  wall  toward  the  street,  with  its  mirror,  pic- 
tures, windows,  and  all  pertaining  to  it  fell  outward  with 

a  crash. 

For  a  second  all  was  still,  as  she  looked  into  the  dark- 
ness which  had  swallowed  up  the  front  and  sheltering  side 
of  her  home.  Then  immediately  about  her  began  a  wail  of 
human  anguish  which  grew  in  agonized  intensity,  gather- 
incr  volume  far  and  near  until  it  became  like  the  death-cry 
of  a  city.  Unconsciously  she  was  joining  in  it— that  invol- 
untary "o/i-/i,"  that  crescendo  tidal  wave  of  sound  sweep- 
ing upward  from  despairing  humanity.  Then  this  mighty 
and  bitter  cry  seemed  to  become  articulate  in  the  word 
''God."  With  an  instinct  swift,  inevitable,  and  irresistible 
as  the  power  that  had  shaken  the  city,  the  thought  of  God 
as  the  only  other  power  able  to  cope  with  the  mysterious 
destroyer,  entered  into  all  hearts  and  found  expression. 

Clouds  of  stifling,  whitish-looking  dust  now  came  pour- 
ing into  the  unprotected  apartment,  obscuring  the  street  and 
rendering  dim  even  the  familiar  objects  near  the  terrified 
girl.  For  a  few  moments  the  nervous  shock  was  so  great 
that  Mara  felt  as  if  paralyzed.  She  remained  lying  on  the 
floor,  half  supporting  herself  by  the  chair,  waiting  in  breath- 
less expectation  for  she  knew  not  what.  The  malign  power 
had  been  so  vast,  and  its  work  so  swift,  that  even  her  fear- 
less spirit  was  overwhelmed. 

The  shrieks,  groans,  and  prayers,  the  hurrying  steps  in 
the  dust-clouded  street  at  last  forced  upon  her  attention  the 
fact  that  all  were  seeking  to  escape  from  the  buildings. 
With  difficulty  she  regained  her  feet  and  tottered  to  Mrs. 
Hunter's  room,  but  found,  to  her  dismay,  that  she  could 
not  open  the  door.  She  called  and  even  shrieked,  but  there 
was  no  answer.  A  sense  of  utter  desolation  and  helpless- 
ness overpowered  her.  Who  could  come  to  her  aid?  Bodine 
could  not.  At  such  a  time  he  would  be  almost  helpless 
himself,  and  there  were  women  in  his  charge.     With  a  bit- 


terness  also  akin  to  the  death,  which  she  momentarily  ex- 
pected, she  knew  that  her  thoughts  had  flown  to  Clancy 
and  to  no  other  human  being  at  that  hour.  She  was  learn- 
ing what  all  others  discovered  in  the  stress  of  the  earth- 
quake, that  everything  not  absolutely  essential  to  life  and 
soul  was  swept  away  and  almost  forgotten. 

To  go  into  the  street  and  get  help  seemed  her  only  re- 
source, and  she  made  her  way  down  the  stairs  to  where  had 
been  the  doorway.  In  vain  she  appealed  to  the  flying 
forms.  Her  cries  were  unheard  in  the  awful  din  of  shrieks, 
prayers,  groans,  and  calls  of  the  separated  to  their  friends. 
The  impression  made  was  of  a  wild  panic  in  which  the  fren- 
zied thought  of  flight,  escape,  predominated. 

She  was  about  to  return  in  something  like  despair,  feel- 
ing that  she  could  not  leave  her  aunt,  when  she  saw  a  tall 
form  rushing  toward  her.  A  second  later  she  recognized 
Owen  Clancy  leaping  over  the  ruins  of  her  home.  With 
a  cry,  she  fell  into  his  outstretched  arms,  faint,  trembling, 
yet  with  a  sense  of  refuge,  a  thrill  of  exquisite  joy  before 
unknown  in  all  her  life. 

"Mara,  dear  Mara,  you  are  not  hurt?"  he  asked  breath- 
lessly. 

"No,  oh,  thank  God,  you  have  come!" 

Again  there  was  the  same  ominous  growl,  deep  in  the 
earth,  which  once  heard  could  never  be  mistaken,  never 
forgotten.  Lifting  her  up  Clancy  carried  her  swiftly  from 
beneath  the  shattered  buildings  to  the  middle  of  the  street. 
She  clung  to  him  almost  convulsively  as  the  earth  again 
swayed  and  trembled  beneath  them,  and  the  awful  moan  of 
nature  swelled,  then  died  away  in  the  distance.  There  was 
an  instant  of  agonized,  breathless  suspense,  then  the  wail 
of  the  stricken  city  rose  again  with  a  deeper  accent  of  terror, 
a  more  passionate  appeal  to  heaven,  and  the  effort  to  escape 
to  the  wider  spaces  was  renewed  in  a  more  headlong 
flight. 

"Mara,'  said  Clancy,  "at  this  hour,  when  everything 
may  be  swept  away  in  a  moment,  there  is  nothing  left  for 


344  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

me  but  you  and  God.     Will  you  trust  me,  and  let  me  do 
my  very  best  to  save  you?' ' 

"Oh,  Owen,  Owen,  God  forgive  me!"  She  uttered  the 
words  like  a  despairing  cry,  then  buried  her  face  upon  his 
breast. 

With  a  dread  greater  than  that  inspired  by  the  earth- 
quake he  thought;  "Is  it  too  late?  Can  she  have  married 
Bodine  ?' '  The  anguish  in  her  tone  combined  with  her  action 
had  revealed  both  her  love  and  its  hopelessness.  He  said 
gently,  yet  firmly:  "We  must  act  now  and  quickly.  Where 
is  Mrs.  Hunter  ?' ' 

Mara  had  apparently  become  speechless  from  grief. 
Without  a  word  she  turned  swiftly,  and  taking  his  hand 
led  him  toward  the  ruined  building. 

"No,  stay  here.  It  will  not  be  safe  for  you  to  enter," 
and  pushing  her  gently  back  he  ran  up  the  exposed  stair- 
way, into  the  parlor,  noticing  with  dismay  the  general  wreck 
and  the  danger  Mara  had  run. 

He  found  that  Mara  had  followed  him.  "Oh,  why  will 
you  come  ?"  he  exclaimed  in  deep  anxiety.  "Where  is  she  ? 
We  must  get  away  from  all  this." 

The  sobbing  girl  could  only  point  to  Mrs.  Hunter's  door. 
Clancy  tried  it,  but  found  it  jammed,  as  were  so  many  others 
that  night,  adding  to  the  terror  of  imprisoned  inmates.  With 
strength  doubled  by  excitement  he  put  his  shoulder  against 
the  barrier  and  burst  it  open.  A  ghastly  spectacle  met  their 
eyes.  Mrs.  Hunter  lay  senseless  on  her  bed  in  her  night- 
robe,  which  was  stained  with  blood.  She  had  evidently 
risen  to  a  sitting  posture  on  the  first  alarm,  and  then  had 
been  stunned  and  cut  by  the  hurling  of  some  heavy  object 
against  her  head  and  neck,  the  shattered  mantel-clock  on 
the  bed  beside  her  showing  how  the  injury  had  been  done. 

Mara's  overwhelming  distress  ceased  its  expression  at  this 
new  horror  as  she  gasped,  "Can  she  be  dead?" 

"This  is  no  place  to  discover,"  Clancy  replied,  rolling 
the  poor  woman's  form  in  a  blanket.  "Mara,  dear,  we  must 
get  away  from  this  house.    It  may  come  down  any  moment. 


"  GOD  "  845 

Snatch    up    wraps,    clotfiiiig,    all  you  can    lay   your  hands 
upon,  and  come. " 

Already  he  was  staggering  away  with  Mrs.  Hunter  in  his 
arms.  In  a  moment  Mara  did  his  bidding  and  followed. 
Slowly  and  with  difficulty  he  made  his  way  down  the  totter- 
ing, broken  stairway,  then  across  the  prostrate  wall  to  the 
centre  of  the  street,  now  almost  deserted.  He  looked  anx- 
iously around,  calculating  that  no  building,  if  it  fell,  could 
reach  them  at  that  point,  then  laid  his  heavy  burden  down, 
and  stood  panting  and  recovering  from  his  exertion. 

"1  think  we  shall  be  as  safe  here  as  anywhere  until  we 
can  reach  one  of  the  squares.  Pat  your  hand,  Mara,  over 
Mrs.  Hunter's  heart,  and  see  if  it  is  beating." 

"Yes,  faintly." 

"Have  you  stimulants  in  the  house?  Canyon  tell  me 
where  to  find  them?" 

"You  shall  not  go  back  there:  I  will  go."  And,  as  if 
endowed  with  sudden  access  of  strength,  she  sprang  away. 
Putting  his  coat  under  Mrs.  Hunter's  head  for  a  pillow- 
he  followed  instantly.  "Now  why  do  you  come?"  she 
protested. 

"Because  I  would  rather  die  with  you,  Mara,  than  live 
safely  without  you." 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  don't  speak  that  way!"  she  replied 
with  a  sob.     "Here,  I  have  it.     Come  away,  quick." 

As  she  hastily  sought  to  cross  the  ruins  in  the  street  she 
missed  her  footing,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  his  ready 
arm  encircled  her  and  borne  her  to  Mrs.  Hunter's  side. 

"Would  to  Grod  I  had  heeded  your  warning,  Owen,"  she 
moaned,  as  she  sought  to  give  her  aunt  some  of  the  brandy, 
while  he  chafed  the  poor  woman's  wrists. 

"You  are  not  married  to  Bodine  ?"  he  asked,  springing 
to  his  feet. 

"No,  but  I  am  pledged  to  him.  I  cannot  break  faith 
and  live.  You  must  be  my  protector  in  a  double  sense, 
protecting  me  against  myself.  As  you  are  a  Southern  gen- 
tleman, help  and  shield  me." 


346  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

"You  ask  what  is  next  to  impossible,  Mara.  I  can  only- 
do  my  best  for  yon. ' ' 

"Oh,  how  I  have  wronged  you!" 

"Not  so  greatly  as  I  have  wronged  myself.  I  will  tell 
you  all  some  other  time." 

"No,  Owen,  no.  We  must  keep  apart.  We  must,  we 
must  indeed.  Oh,  oh,  it  would  have  been  better  that  I  had 
died !  You  must  harden  your  face  and  heart  against  me — 
that  is  the  only  way  to  help  me  now. ' ' 

"Never  shall  I  harden  my  heart  against  you.  Whatever 
comes  I  shall  be  your  loyal  friend. ' ' 

"Oh,  the  cruelty  of  my  fate — to  wrong  two  such  men!" 

"Bress  de  Lawd!  I'se  fown  you;"  and  Aun'  Sheba  stood 
before  them,  panting  and  abounding  in  grateful  ejaculations. 

"Aun'  Sheba!"  cried  Mara,  throwing  herself  into  the 
arms  of  her  old  nurse.  "To  think  that  you  should  come 
to  me  through  all  these  dangers !' ' 

"Wot  else  I  do,  honey  lam?  You  tink  you  kin  be  in 
trouble  an'  I  ain't  dar?  Marse  Clancy,  my  'specs.  Once 
I  tinks  you  a  far-wedder  frien',  but  I  takes  it  back.  Lawd, 
Lawd !  is  de  ole  missus  dun  gone  ?' ' 

"No,  Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Clancy.  "Help  us  revive  her, 
and  then  help  me  carry  her  to  a  place  of  greater  safety. 
You  come  like  an  angel  of  light." 

"I'se  rudder  hebby  an'  brack  fer'n  angel,  but,  like  de 
angels,  we'se  all  got  ter  do  a  heap  ob  totin'  ter- night." 


SCENES   NEVER    TO    BE   FORGOTTEN  347 


CHAPTER   XLI 

SCENES   NEVER   TO   BE   FORGOTTEN 

WHEN  George  Houghton  reached  his  father's  room 
he  heard  Jube  fairly  howling  in  the  darkness, 
and  the  old  man  groaning  heavily. 

''Father,"  cried  the  young  man,  "you  are  not  hurt?" 

''Oh,  George,  thank  God,  you  have  again  escaped!  This 
is  an  earthquake,  isn't  it?" 

"It  must  be,  and  I  must  take  you  out  to  some  open  space 
at  once.  Jube,  shut  up,  and  keep  your  senses.  If  you  don't 
help  me  I'll  break  your  bones." 

Groping  about  he  found  a  match  and  lighted  a  candle. 

"Oh,  George,  you  are  hurt.  Your  face  is  covered  with 
blood  I"  cried  Mr.  Houghton. 

"Slight  cuts  only.  Come,  father,  there  may  be  another 
shock,  and  it  will  not  be  safe  to  dress  you  here.  Let  me 
wrap  you  in  blankets,  and  then  Jube  and  I  will  carry  you 
to  Marion  Square.     I  will  come  back  for  your  clothes." 

This  they  proceeded  to  do,  Mr.  Houghton  meanwhile 
protesting,  ''No,  George,  you  shall  not  come  back."  Then 
he  asked  a  moment  or  two  later,  "Why  do  you  take  me 
out  at  the  side  door  ?' ' 

"It  will  be  safer,"  George  replied,  not  wishing  to  ex- 
plain that  the  pillared  and  massive  portico  was  in  ruins. 

As  they  passed  the  front  of  the  house,  however,  Jube 
groaned,  "Oh,  Lawd!  de  porch  dun  smashed!" 

"This  is  awful,  my  boy!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Houghton. 
"Oh,  this  dreadful  city!  this  dreadful  city!" 

"The  worst  is  over,  I  think.  Brace  up,  Jube.  If  you 
are  so  anxious  to  save  your  life,  step  lively." 


348  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Jes  hear  de  people  holler,"  cried  Jube,  trembling  so  he 
could  scarcely  keep  his  hold,  and  he  gave  a  loud,  sympa- 
thetic yell  himself. 

''Stop  that,"  said  George  sternly.  "Oh,  Dr.  Devoe,  I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  he  added,  as  the  physician  came 
running  up.     ' '  You  are  a  godsend. 

"1  was  passing  near,"  explained  the  physician,  "and, 
being  a  bachelor,  can  think  of  my  patients  first.  Jube,  if 
you  yell  again  I'll  cuff  you.  Be  a  man  now  and  we'll  all 
soon  be  safe." 

They  joined  the  throngs  which  were  gathering  on  the 
square,  and  Mr.  Houghton  was  tenderly  placed  upon  the 
grass.  "Doctor,  you  and  Jube  will  stay  with  him  while  I 
get  articles  for  his  comfort;"  and  before  his  father  could 
again  interpose  George  was  off  at  full  speed. 

''He  will  come  out  all  right,"  said  Dr.  Devoe  sooth- 
ingly.    "Never  fear  for  George." 

But  when  the  second  roll  of  subterranean  thunder  was 
heard,  and  the  cries  and  lamentations  of  the  people  were 
redoubled,  the  old  man  wrung  his  hands  and  groaned,  "Oh, 
why  did  you  let  him  go  ?"  After  the  quiver  passed  he  sat 
up  and  strained  his  eyes  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
hoped  again  to  see  his  son.  The  house  was  not  far  away, 
and  George  soon  appeared  staggering  under  a  mattress, 
with  bedding,  clothing,  and  other  articles  essential  to  the 
comfort  and  safety  of  his  father.  Jube,  under  the  doctor's 
assurances,  was  beginning  to  rally  from  his  terror,  and  be- 
tween them  they  speedily  made  the  old  man  comfortable. 

As  George  was  arranging  the  pillows  his  father  said, 
"God  forgive  me  for  being  so  obdurate,  my  boy.  I  know 
where  your  thoughts  are.     Go  and  help  her  if  you  can." 

With  heartfelt  murmured  thanks  the  young  man  kissed 
his  father,  and  bounded  away. 

Ella  Bodine  and  her  father  were  truly  in  sore  trouble. 
A  few  minutes  before  ten,  Mrs.  Bodine's  delicate  and  en- 
feebled organization  succumbed  to  the  heat  and  closeness 
of  the  air,  and  she  suddenly  swooned.     Ella  in  alarm  sum- 


SCENES    NEVER    TO    BE   FORGOTTEN  349 

moned  her  father  and  old  Bannah,  and  all  were  engaged  in 
applying  restoratives  when  they  too  were  appalled  by  the 
hideous  sound  which  gave  such  brief  and  terrible  warning 
of  the  disaster.  The  veteran,  who  sat  by  the  bedside,  chaf- 
ing his  cousin's  wrists  with  spirits,  barely  had  time  to  get 
on  his  crutches  when  he  was  thrown  violently  to  the  floor, 
while  Ella,  with  a  wild  cry,  fell  across  the  bed.  Then,  in 
expectation  of  instant  death,  they  listened  with  an  awe  too 
great  for  expression  to  the  infernal  uproar,  the  crash  of 
falling  objects,  the  groaning  and  grinding  of  the  swaying 
house,  and  above  all  to  the  voice  of  the  deep,  subterranean 
power  which  appeared  to  be  rending  the  earth. 

Most  fortunately  the  gas  was  not  extinguished,  and  when 
it  was  still  again,  Ella  rushed  to  her  father,  and  exclaimed 
as  she  helped  him  up,  "Oh,  papa,  what  is  this?" 

''Be  Jedgmen  Day,"  said  a  quivering  voice. 

Bodine's  face  was  very  white,  but  his  iron  nerves  did 
not  give  way.  "Ella,"  he  said  firmly,  "you  must  keep 
calm  and  do  as  I  say.  It  is  an  earthquake.  Since  the 
house  stands  we  may  hope  to  revive  Cousin  Sophy  before 
taking  her  to  the  street.  Come,  Hannah,  get  up  and  do 
your  best." 

From  her  sitting  posture  on  the  floor,  the  old  woman 
only  answered  in  a  low  terrified  monotone,  "De  Jedgmen 
Day." 

"Oh,  papa,  she's  just  crazed,  and  we  must  do  everything 
ourselves;"  and,  Ella,  with  trembling  hands  and  stifled  sobs, 
began  to  aid  her  father. 

"Oh,  hear  those  awful  cries  in  the  street,"  she  said  after 
a  moment.  "Don't  you  think  we  should  try  to  take  cousin 
out?" 

"If  I  were  not  so  helpless!"  Bodine  groaned.  "Hannah, 
wake  up  and  help." 

"De  Jedgmen  Day,"  was  the  only  response. 

"There  is  no  use  to  look  to  her,  papa.  I'm  strong.  See, 
I  can  lift  cousin,  she  is  so  light." 

"No,  Ella,  it  might  injure  you  for  life.     If  we  could 


350  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

only  partially  revive  her,  and  she  could  help  you  a  little- 
There  may  not  be  another  shock." 

They  worked  on,  growing  more  assured  as  the  house  re- 
mained quiet.  Hannah  was  evidently  crazed  for  the  time 
being,  for,  deaf  to  all  expostulations,  she  would  not  move, 
and  kept  repeating  the  terrible  refrain. 

"O  God!"  said  Bodine  in  tones  of  the  deepest  distress, 
"to  think  that  I  cannot  go  to  Mara!" 

"Well,  papa,  you  can't  help  it.  Your  duty  is  here. 
May  God  pity  and  save  us  all!" 

At  last  the  ominous  rumble  began  again  in  the  distance. 
Ella  gave  her  father  a  startled  look,  and  saw  confirmation 
of  her  fear  in  his  face.  Old  Hannah  started  up  exclaiming, 
"De  Lawd  is  comin'  now  shuah.  I'se  gwine  ter  meet  Him," 
and  she  rushed  away. 

With  another  wild  cry  Ella  lifted  the  form  of  her  cousin 
in  her  arms,  and,  with  a  strength  created  by  the  emergency, 
staggered  down  the  stairs  to  the  door.  Then  a  man  saw  and 
relieved  her  of  her  burden.  Bodine  with  difficulty  tried  to 
follow,  but  could  not  during  the  brief  shock.  When  all 
was  still  again  he  threw  the  bedding  over  his  shoulder, 
went  down  and  speedily  checked  Ella's  wild  cries  that  he 
should  not  delay. 

The  street  was  comparatively  wide;  the  houses  were  not 
high,  and  they  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of 
refugees  like  themselves— mothers  sobbing  over  their  babes, 
men  caring  for  sick  and  fainting  wives,  and  children  stand- 
ing by  feeble  and  aged  parents.     Family  servants  crouched 
on  the  pavement  beside  their  employers,  and  continually 
gave  utterance  to  ejaculatory  prayers  which  found  sympa- 
thetic echoes  in  the  stoutest  hearts.      Many  were  coming 
and  going.      The  place   seemed  a  partial  refuge,    yet  the 
proximity  of  houses  led  one  group  after  another  to  seek 
the  open  squares.     In  many  instances  rare  fortitude  and 
calmness  were  displayed.      Here,  as  elsewhere  throughout 
the  city,  frail  women,  more  often  than  strong  men,  were 
patient  and  resigned  in  their  Christian  faith. 


SCEJNES    NEVER    TO    BE    FORGOTTEN  351 

Ella  supported  Mrs.  Bodine's  head  Tipon  her  lap,  and 
others  now  aided  in  the  efiort  to  bring  back  consciousness. 
Fortunately,  however,  for  the  poor  lady,  she  knew  not  what 
was  passing. 

Suddenly  the  group  parted  to  make  way  for  a  hatless, 
coatless  man,  whose  face  was  terribly  disfigured  with  blood 
and  dust.  Nevertheless  Ella  recognized  him  with  the  glad 
cry,  ''Mr.  Houghton!" 

"Thank  Heaven  you  are  safe!"  he  gasped,  panting  heav- 
ily; and  he  gave  his  hand  to  Mr.  Bodine. 

''But  you  are  injured,"  said  the  captain,  in  deep  solici- 
tude. 

"No,  nothing  worth  mentioning;  merely  cut  and  bruised. 
I  came  as  soon  as  I  had  fixed  my  father  safe  in  the  square. 
I  thought  you  might  need  help." 

"Mr.  Houghton,  you  are  overwhelming  us — " 

"Please  don't  think  and  talk  that  way.  God  knows,  a 
man  should  give  help  where  it  is  most  needed  at  such  a  time. 
This  IS  Mrs.  Bodine  ?" 

"Yes,  she  fainted  before  the  first  shock.  We  have  been 
unable  to  revive  her.  At  the  last  shock  my  daughter  car- 
ried her  down." 

"Miss  Bodine!"  exclaimed  George  in  surprise  and  ad- 
miration. 

She  gave  him  a  swift  glance  through  her  tears,  and  then, 
dropping  her  eyes,  resumed  her  efforts  to  revive  her  cousin. 

"You  may  well  exclaim,"  said  her  father.  "How  she 
did  it  I  do  not  know.  Excitement  gave  strength,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Everything  these  kind  friends  and  I  can  do  for  her 

seems  useless,"  Ella  faltered. 

"Let  me  get  my  wind  a  little,"  said  George,  eagerly, 
"and  I  will  carry  her  to  the  square,  where  my  father  is. 
A  good  physician  is  with  him." 

At  this  instant  came  a  third  and  severer  shock  than  the 
last,  and  with  it  the  new  terror  which  sickened  the  bravest. 
"0  God,"  cried  Ella,  "will  there  be  no  respite?"     Then 


852  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

observing  for  the  first  time  the  pillars  of  light  and  smoke 
rising  at  different  points,  she  cried  in  still  deeper  fear,  "Oh, 
papa,  can  those  be  volcanic  fires?" 

"No,  no,  my  child." 

"I  saw  a  fire  kindling  in  a  deserted  house  as  I  ame," 
George  added  excitedly.  "Truly,  Captain  Bodme,  this  is 
no  place  for  your  family;  or,"  turning  to  the  groups  near, 
"for  you  either,  friends.  Ah,  see!  there  is  a  house  almost 
opposite  beginning  to  burn.  Come;"  and  without  further 
hesitation  he  lifted  Mrs.  Bodine  and  strode  away. 

Not  only  Ella  and  ber  father  followed,  but  also  the 
others,  those  who  were  the  strongest  supporting  the  feeble 
and  injured. 

They  had  gone  but  little  way  before  Bodine  said,  "Ella, 
I  must  go  and  see  if  Mara  has  escaped.  I  cannot  seek  safety 
myself  unless  assured  that  she  is  safe. 

"Oh,  papa,  it  will  be  almost  suicide  for  you  to  go  through 
these  streets  alone." 

"Ella,  there  are  some  things  so  much  worse  than  death. 
If  you  and  cousin  were  alone  I  would  not  leave  you,  but 
with  a  strong  helper  and  a  physician  in  prospect  I  must 
go.  How  could  I  look  Mara  in  the  face  again  if  I  made  no 
effort  in  her  behalf?     Explain  to  Mr.  Houghton." 

He  dropped  behind,  then  turned  up  a  side  street  and 
carefully  yet  quickly  halted  over  and  around  the  impedi- 
ments strewn  in  the  way. 

Aware  of  the  danger  of  delay,  George  went  forward  with 
a  rapid  stride.     "Can  you  keep  up  ?"   he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Ella  replied. 

"We  must  get  by  and  beyond  these  higher  buildings.  I 
have  the  horrible  dread  that  they  may  fall  on  you  any  mo- 
ment." 

"You  never  seem  to  think  of  yourself,  Mr.  Houghton." 

"I  must  now,"  he  said  after  a  moment  or  two.  "Here  is 
a  corner  at  which  we  can  rest,  for  there  are  no  high  build- 
ings near;"  and  he  sank  on  the  ground  with  Mrs.  Bodine 
still  in  his  arms. 


SCENES   NEVER    TO    BE    FORGOTTEN  353 

'*0h,  you  are  killing  yourself!"  she  cried  in  deep  distress. 

"Not  at  all,  only  resting.     Where  is  your  father?" 

Ella  explained  and  revealed  her  fears. 

*'I  will  go  to  his  aid  and  Miss  Wallingford's  as  soon  as 
you  and  Mrs.  Bodine  are  safe." 

"Mr.  Houghton,  how  can  I — " 

"By  giving  me  the  privilege  of  serving  you,  and  by  not 
making  me  miserable  from  seeing  you  burdened  with  a  sense 
of  obligation,"  he  said  quickly.  "That  is  the  one  thing  I 
have  feared— that  you  would  be  unhappy  because  it  has 
been  my  good-fortune— oh,  well,  you  understand." 

She  did,  better  than  he,  for  his  swift  coming  to  her  aid 
had  banished  all  doubt  of  him. 

"Please  understand,  then,  that  I  gratefully  and  gladly 
accept  yoar  chivalrous  help.  Have  I  not  seen  it  given  to 
the  old  and  feeble  before?  Oh,  these  heart-rending  criesi 
It  seems  to  me  that  they  will  haunt  me  forever." 

"Please  support  Mrs.  Bodine  a  moment.  That  is  a  wo- 
man's scream  just  beyond  us.  She  is  evidently  injured,  and 
probably  held  fast  in  the  ruins." 

He  ran  to  the  spot,  and  found  that  a  woman  had  been 
prostrated  and  partially  buried  by  the  bricks  of  a  falling 
chimney.  She  had  been  unconscious  for  a  time,  but  now, 
reviving,  her  agonized  shrieks  rose  above  the  other  cries. 
George  spoke  soothingly  to  her  as  he  threw  the  bricks  to 
right  and  left.  She  was  evidently  suffering  the  extremity 
of  pain,  for  she  again  screamed  and  moaned  in  the  most 
heart-rending  way,  although  George  lifted  her  as  carefully 
as  possible.  Laying  her  down  beside  Mrs.  Bodine  he  began 
in  distressed  perplexity,  "What  shall  we  do  now  ?  We  can- 
not leave  her  here." 

At  this  moment  a  group  of  negroes  approached.  One 
was  carrying  a  little  girl  whom  Ella  immediately  recog- 
nized as  Vilet.  Then  she  saw  Sissy,  the  mother,  carrying 
her  youngest,  and  weeping  hysterically,  while  the  other 
children  clung  to  her  skirts.  Uncle  Sheba  brought  up 
the  rear,  fairly  howling  m  his  terror.     The  man  carrying 


854  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

the  child  was  Mr.  Birdsall,  who  had  called  with  old  To  be 
just  before  the  first  shock.  The  gray-wooUed  negro  was 
walking  beside  his  minister,  uttering  petitions  and  self-ac- 
cusations. Old  Tobe  was  comparatively  alone  in  the  world, 
without  kith  or  kin.  Mr.  Birdsall,  feeling  that  he  owed  al- 
most an  equal  duty  to  his  flock,  had  only  stipulated  that  he 
should  stop  at  his  home  for  his  wife  and  children.  Happily 
they  were  unharmed,  and  were  able  to  follow  unaided;  and 
so,  like  a  good  shepherd,  he  still  carried  the  weakest  of  his 
lambs. 

Ella  called  to  them,  and  they  paused.  George,  ever 
prompt  in  action,  saw  that  old  Tobe  and  Uncle  Sheba  were 
able  to  do  more  than  use  their  lungs,  and  he  sprang  forward 
to  press  them  into  his  service.  Tobe  readily  yielded,  but 
Uncle  Sheba  would  do  nothing  but  howl.  In  his  impa- 
tience George  struck  him  a  sharp  blow  across  the  mouth, 
exclaiming,  "Stop  your  infernal  noise.  If  you  are  strong 
enough  to  yell  that  way  you  can  do  something  better.  Stop, 
I  say,  or  I'll  be  worse  than  two  earthquakes;"  and  he  shook 
Uncle  Sheba's  howl  into  staccato  and  tremolo  notes. 

"Dere  am  no  use  foolin'  wid  dat  niggah,"  said  old 
Tobe. 

"Howl,  then,  if  you  will,  but  help  you  shall;"  and  tak- 
ing him  by  his  shoulder,  George  pushed  him  beside  Tobe, 
made  the  two  form  a  chair  with  their  hands,  and  put  the 
woman  into  it,  with  her  arms  about  the  neck  of  each. 

Taking  up  Mrs.  Bodine  he  again  went  forward.  The 
miserable  little  procession  followed,  Uncle  Sheba  mechan- 
ically doing  his  part,  at  the  same  time  continuing  to  make 
night  hideous  by  the  full  use  of  a  pair  of  lungs  in  which 
was  no  rheumatic  weakness.  Motion  caused  the  wretched 
woman  renewed  agony,  and  her  shrieks  mingled  with  his 
stentorian  cries. 

"Oh,  this  is  horrible  I"  Ella  said  at  George's  side. 

"It  is  indeed.  Miss  Bodine;  yet  how  glad  I  am  that  you 
Wave  not  been  injured!" 

"Oh,  oh,  I  fear  so  greatly  that  my  cousin  will  not  live 


SCENES    NEVER    TO    BE    FORGOTTEN  355 

through  this  dreadful  night;  and  my  father,  too,  is  facing 
unknown  dangers!" 

''This  is  an  awful  ill  wind,  Miss  Bodine,  but  the  fact  that 
1  can  help  you  and  yours  gives  me  a  deeper  satisfaction  than 
you  can  imagine." 

She  could  not  trust  herself  to  answer,  therefore  was  si- 
lent, and  his  thought  was,  "I  must  go  slower  on  that  tack, 
and  not  so  close  to  the  wmd. "  The  forlorn  company  even- 
tually reached  the  square,  and  made  their  way  to  the  place 
where  George  had  left  his  father.  As  the  old  man  saw  his 
son,  and  comprehended  his  mission  of  mercy  as  well  as 
love,  he  murmured,  "God  forgive  me  that  it  should  require 
an  earthquake  to  teach  how  much  better  is  his  spirit  than 
mine,"  and  his  heart  grew  as  tender  as  a  mother's  toward 
his  boy. 

Dr.  Devoe,  who  was  attending  another  patient  not  far 
away,  came  up  hastily  and  eased  the  poor  creature  out  of 
the  negroes'  hands  to  the  ground. 

He  gave  her  some  of  the  wine  George  had  brought  for 
his  father,  saying  as  he  did  so,  "Try  to  be  calm,  now, 
madam.     I  am  a  physician,  and  will  do  ail  1  can  for  you." 

Mr.  Houghton  promptly  sent  Jube  to  the  doctor  with  one 
of  his  pillows  and  part  of  his  bedding,  so  the  woman  was 
made  as  comfortable  as  her  condition  permitted. 

George  laid  Mrs.  Bodine  on  the  grass,  and  then  with  the 
gcanty  bedding  Ella  had  carried,  aided  in  making  a  resting- 
place  not  far  from  his  father.  He  next  lifted  Mrs.  Bodine 's 
head  into  the  girl's  lap,  and  was  about  to  turn  his  attention 
to  Uncle  Sheba,  but  was  anticipated.  Two  men  had  taken 
him  by  the  shoulders,  one  of  them  saying,  "If  you  don't 
keep  still  we'll  tie  you  under  the  nearest  building  and  leave 
you  there,"  and  they  began  to  march  him  off.  At  this  dire 
threat  Uncle  Sheba  collapsed  and  fell  to  the  ground,  where 
he  was  left. 

Dr.  Devoe  divided  his  attention  between  the  fatally  in- 
jured woman  and  Mrs.  Bodine,  who  under  his  remedies  and 
the  efforts  of  George  and  Ella  soon  revived.     Mr.  Houghton 


366  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

looked  with  wonder,  pity,  and  some  embarrassment  at  the 
small,  frail  form,  and  the  white,  thin  face  of  one  whom  had 
characterized  as  "that  terrible  old  woman."  She  seemed 
scarcely  a  shadow  of  what  she  had  been  on  that  former 
night,  more  terrible  even  that  this  one  to  the  then  stricken 
father.  Now  the  son  whom  he  had  thought  dead  had  car- 
ried her  to  his  side,  and  was  bending  over  her. 

"Well,  well,"  he  muttered,  "the  ways  of  God  are  above 
and  beyond  me.     I  give  up,  1  give  up." 

Then  his  eyes  rested  on  Ella.  He  saw  a  face  which  even 
the  dust  of  the  streets  could  not  so  begrime  as  to  hide  its 
sweetness  or  its  tenderness,  as,  with  deep  solicitude,  she 
bent  over  her  cousin.  A  conflagration  raging  near  now 
began  to  ilame  so  high  that  its  lights  flickered  on  the  girl's 
face,  etherealizing  its  beauty,  and  turning  her  flufiy  hair  to 
gold.  She  became  like  a  vision  to  the  old  man,  angelic,  yet 
human  in  her  natural  sympathy.  The  thought  would  come, 
"I  have  fought  like  a  demon  to  keep  that  face  from  bending 
over  me  in  my  feebleness  and  age.  Truly  God's  ways  are 
best." 

Ella  had  only  glanced  at  his  pale,  rugged  face  with  awe 
and  dread,  and  then  had  given  all  her  thoughts  to  her 
cousin. 

As  the  latter  began  to  regain  consciousness,  she  motioned 
George  away,  and  with  Dr.  Devoe,  sought  to  complete  the 
work  of  restoration.  To  dazed  looks  and  confused  ques- 
tions she  replied  merely  with  soothing  words  until  the  doc- 
tor said  kindly,  but  firmly,  "Mrs.  Bodine,  you  are  now  safe, 
and  as  comfortable  as  we  can  make  you.  Do  not  try  to 
comprehend  what  has  happened.  There  are  so  many  worse 
o££  who  need  attention — ' ' 

"There,  there,  doctor,"  Mrs.  Bodine  interrupted,  with  a 
flash  of  her  old  spirit,  "no  matter  what's  happened,  I  thank 
you  for  your  attention.     Please  give  it  now  to  others." 

"Doctor,"  said  George,  "I  fear  the  little  colored  girl 
who  came  in  with  us  is  dying."  They  went  to  the  spot 
where  Sissy  was  pillowing  Vilet's  head  against  her  breast. 


SCENES   NEVER    TO    BE   FORGOTTEN  Sbl 

The  physician  made  a  brief  examination,  and  heard  how  a 
brick  had  fallen  on  the  child  as  they  were  getting  her  out, 
then  said,  "I'm  sorry  1  can  do  nothing  but  alleviate  her 
pain  a  little." 

Turning  away  promptly  he  began,  "See  here,  Houghton, 
I  must  go  to  the  nearest  drug-store  and  help  myself  if  no 
one's  there.  Will  you  come  with  me?  I  shall  need  a  lot 
of  things,  more  than  I  can  carry." 

"I  can't,"  George  replied,  "but  here  is  the  man  that 
will,  I  think;"  and  he  roused  old  Tobe  who  sat  quietly 
near  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

"Sartin.  I  do  wot  1  kin  while  de  can' el  hole  out  to 
burn,"  Tobe  assented  rising. 

"That's  right,  my  man,  and  you'll  help  other  candles  to 
hold  out." 

"Doctor,  understand  me,"  explained  George,  "I  must 
go  and  search  for  Captain  Bodine,  who  is  wandering  on 
crutches  about  the  city,"  and  he  hastened  to  say  a  word 
to  his  father. 

Ella  saw  him  kneel  by  the  old  man,  and  then  rise  after 
a  moment  or  two  with  such  gladness  in  his  face  that  even 
the  blood  and  dust  stains  could  not  disguise  it.  Little  won- 
der, for  Mr.  Houghton  had  said,  "I'm  conquered,  George. 
I  give  ail  up — all  my  ambitious  dreams  about  you.  What 
dreams  they  now  seem!  This  awful  earthquake  has  shaken 
awaj  everything  except  life,  and  the  love  which  makes  life 
worth  anything,  I've  seen  the  girl,  and  I  don't  blame  you. 
Go  ahead. ' ' 

"Oh,  thanks,  thanks.  You'll  never  be  sorry;  but, 
father,  please  don't  say  anything  to  her  about — about — 
Well,  she  don't  know,  and  I  must  woo  before  I  can  hope 
to  win. " 

"You  needn't  worry  about  me.  I'm  old  enough  to  be 
wary,"  and  the  old  man  could  not  repress  a  grim  smile. 
Then  he  added,  "George,  for  mercy's  sake,  try  to  get  the 
blood  and  dust  off  your  face  and  find  a  coat.  You  look 
as  if  you  had  been  through  a  prize-hght." 


868  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

George  explained  the  quest  he  was  about  to  enter  upon, 
and  promised  caution.  Then  he  approached  ElJa.  "Miss 
Bodine,"  he  said,  ''I  will  now  search  for  your  father  till 
I  find  him." 

Again  the  girl  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  but  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  as  she  gave  him  her  hand.  He  .pressed 
it  so  hard  as  to  leave  a  delicious  ache,  and  hastened  away. 

''Good  Lor!  who  was  that  awful-looking  man?"  Mrs. 
Bodine  asked  Ella. 

''George    Houghton.       He    carried    you    from     home 

here." 

"Lor!  Lor!    Saved  my  life  as  well  as  yours  and  Cousin 

Hugh's?" 

"Yes,  and  now  he's  going  to  help  papa  and  Mara." 

"Well,  well,  we'll  have  to  forgive  him  for  being  born 
North.     Is  that  old—" 

Ella  stopped  her  mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  whispered: 
"That  is  his  father.  Don't  let  us  look  at  him.  In  fact,  I'm 
afraid  to — at  least  while  he  is  so  ill." 

"Well,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bdine,  "if  this  earthquake  does 
not  cure  him  of  his  cussedness,  I  hope  the  Lord  will  take 
him  to  heaven." 

"He  did  not  prevent  George  from  coming  to  me,  nor  his 
going  to  papa's  aid.  He  was  kind,  too,  to  that  poor  woman 
yonder.  Oh,  I'm  sorry  for  her,  and  I  wish  I  could  do  some- 
thing." 

"Perhaps  you  can.     Go  and  see." 

"I've  nothing  to  put  under  your  head,  cousin." 

"I'll  put  patience  under  it.  That,  I  reckon,  is  all  I  have 
left  now.  Go,  Ella,  dear,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  her  moan. 
I'm  in  no  pain,  and  that  wine  has  quite  heartened  me." 

Ella  did  as  she  was  bidden.  That  Mr.  Houghton  was 
observant  was  quickly  proved,  for  he  said  to  Jube,  "Take 
this  pillow  to  that  lady  yonder.  If  she  declines,  say  you 
have  your  orders,  and  leave  it." 

Mrs.  Bodine  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  protested. 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Houghton,  "do  not  deny  a  helpless 


SCENES    NEVER    TO    BE    FORGOTTEN  859 

man  the  privilege  of  doing  a  little  for  the  comfort  of  others 
at  a  time  like  this." 

"But  you  have  none  left  for  yourself,  sir,"  Mrs.  Bodine 

replied. 

"Madam,  you  can  understand  what  a  satisfaction  that 
will  be  to  me  under  the  circumstances." 

Mrs.  Bodine  yielded  and  admitted  to  herself  that  she  was 
much  more  comfortable.  "I  reckon  the  earthquake  is  doing 
him  good,"  she  thought,  "and  that  the  Lord  better  keep 
him  here  a  while  longer." 

"Can't  you  lift  me  up  a  little?"  gasped  the  injured 
woman  to  Ella.     "Oh,  how  I  suffer,  suffer/'' 

Ella  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  shifted  the  pillow 
so  that  it  came  under  the  wounded  back,  while  the  weary 
head  rested  against  her  bosom. 

"Ah!"  said  the  poor  creature,  "that's  easier.  1  reckon 
I  won't  have  to  suffer  much  longer." 

Ella  spoke  soothingly  and  gently.  Mr.  Houghton,  who 
could  only  hear  the  sweet  tenderness  of  her  tones,  wiped 
tears  from  his  eyes  as  he  again  murmured,  "God  forgive 
me,  blind,  obstinate  old  fool  that  I've  been!" 

The  adjacent  flames  now  lighted  up  the  entire  scene, 
throwing  their  baleful  light  on  such  an  assemblage  as  had 
never  before  gathered  in  this  New  World. 

The  convulsion  which  threatened  to  raze  every  home  in 
the  city  had  certainly  brought  the  people  down  to  the  same 
level.  Both  white  and  colored  citizens  were  mingled  to- 
gether on  the  square  in  a  swiftly  created  democracy.  Char- 
acter, the  noble  qualities  of  the  soul,  without  regard  to  color 
or  previous  condition,  now  only  gave  distinction. 


860  TEE    EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XLII 

A      HOMELESS      CITY 

THE  efiorts  of  Clancy  and  Mara  combined  with  the 
vigorous  and  sensible  ministrations  of  Ann'  Sheba 
at  last  brought  consciousness  to  Mrs.  Hunter. 
Tearing  up  a  linen  sheet  they  stanched  and  bound  up 
her  wounds,  and  then  Clancy  said,  "We  must  get  her 
to  one  of  the  squares  and  under  a  physician's  care  as  soon 
as  possible." 

"My  folks  is  gwine  to  Mar 'on  Squar,  an'  dar  I  promise 
ter  come,"  said  Aun'  Sheba.  "It's  'bout  as  nigh  as  any 
ob  dem." 

Mrs.  Hunter  looked  at  Clancy,  and  shrank  from  him 
visibly.  He  said  quickly,  "Surely,  Mrs.  Hunter,  all  enmi- 
ties should  be  forgotten  at  this  time,  or  at  least  put  aside. 
We  should  leave  this  narrow  side-street  at  once." 

"Aunty,"  said  Mara,  gently,  "Mr.  Clancy  has  saved  us 
both  from  destruction.  For  my  sake  and  Aun'  Sheba's  as 
well  as  your  own,  you  must  let  him  do  all  in  his  power." 

The  earthly,  yet  unearthly,  rumble  of  another  shock  put 
an  end  to  further  hesitation.  It  would  be  long  before  the 
terror  inspired  by  this  phenomenon  would  cease  to  be  over- 
whelming. 

Aun'  Sheba  lifted  her  arms  imploringly  to  heaven,  while 
the  vivid  consciousness  of  the  direst  peril  known  brought 
Mara  and  Clancy  together  again  in  an  embrace  that  was  the 
natural  expression  of  the  feeling  that,  if  die  they  must,  they 
would  die  together.  With  such  black  ruin  about  them, 
caused  by  one  shock,  the  fear  could  not  be  combated  that 
the  next  might  end  everything. 


A    HOMELESS    CITY  361 

When  the  convulsion  passed,  Clancy  and  Ann'  Sheba 
immediately  formed  a  chair  with  their  hands,  and  Mara 
helped  Mrs.  Hunter,  now  ready  enough  to  escape  by  any 
means,  to  avail  herself  of  it.  They  made  their  way  with 
difficulty  over  the  debris  to  King  Street.  Here  they  were 
obliged  to  pause  and  rest.  No  rest,  however,  did  Clancy 
obtain,  for  a  momentary  glance  revealed  one  of  the  awful 
phases  of  the  disaster.  Three  or  four  doors  above  them, 
houses  were  burning  from  overturned  and  exploded  lamps. 
Some  of  the  shop-keepers  were  frantically  endeavoring  to 
save  a  few  of  their  goods,  often,  in  their  excitement,  carry- 
ing out  the  strangest  and  most  valueless  articles.  Clancy's 
brief  glance  gave  no  heed  to  such  efforts,  but  before  he 
could  turn  away,  a  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  came 
rushing  from  one  of  the  burning  houses.  Her  dress  had 
touched  the  fire,  and  was  beginning  to  burn.  Clancy  caught 
one  of  the  blankets  from  Mara,  and  with  it  extinguished  the 
flames,  while  Mara  took  the  infant.  The  instant  the  babe 
was  out  of  her  arms  the  mother  tried  to  break  away  and 
rush  back,  shrieking,  ''There's  another!  there's  another 
child!" 

"Where?"  cried  Clancy,  restraining  her. 

"In  the  front  room  there." 

"Stay  here,  then,"  and  he  darted  through  the  doorway, 
out  of  which  the  smoke  was  pouring  as  from  a  chimney. 

Mara  and  the  mother  looked  after  him  in  breathless  and 
agonized  suspense.  The  flames  had  burst  suddenly  into  the 
apartment,  and  through  the  windows  they  could  see  him 
enter,  snatch  up  the  child,  and  disappear.  But  he  did  not 
come  out  of  the  street  door  as  soon  as  they  expected.  They 
could  endure  waiting  no  longer.  Both  dashed  into  the 
smoke-clouded  passage-way,  and  stumbled  against  Clancy 
where  he  had  sunk  down  within  a  few  steps  of  safety. 

The  mother  seized  her  child,  while  Mara,  with  a  strength 
given  by  her  heart,  dragged  the  strangling  man  to  the  open 
air.  By  this  time  Aun'  Sheba  was  at  her  side,  and  between 
them  they  carried  him  to  the  spot  where  Mrs.  Hunter  lay. 

p_-ROE— XY    ' 


362  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Now  that  he  could  breathe  he  soon  recovered;  Mara's 
tender  and  imploring  words  being  potent  indeed  in  rally- 
ing him.  His  exposure  to  heat  and  the  smoke  had  been  ter- 
rible, but  fortunately  very  brief.  He  was  soon  on  his  feet, 
exclaiming,  ''We  must  go  on  to  Meeting  Street,  for  there 
we  shall  have  a  better  chance." 

Thither  they  made  their  way  with  other  fugitives,  Clancy 
and  Aun'  Sheba  carrying  Mrs.  Hunter  as  before,  Mara  fol- 
lowing with  the  infant,  and  close  beside  her  the  grateful 
mother  with  the  other  child. 

Having  reached  a  somewhat  open  space  in  the  wider 
thoroughfare,  the  young  man  became  satisfied  that  another 
mode  of  transportation  must  be  found.  Mrs.  Hunter  was 
too  heavy  for  the  primitive  method  adopted  in  the  emer- 
gency. Aun'  Sheba  took  the  injured  woman's  head  upon 
her  lap  while  he  rested  and  looked  about  for  something  like 
an  army  stretcher.  Among  the  ruins  he  found  one  of  the 
long  wooden  shutters  which  a  jeweller  had  placed  against 
his  window  hours  before.  Watches  and  gems  gleamed  in 
the  light  of  kindling  fires,  and  were  within  easy  reach,  but 
the  most  unscrupulous  of  thieves  were  honest  that  night. 
Clancy  carried  the  shutter  to  Mrs.  Hunter's  side,  and  then 
watched  for  some  man  whom  he  could  persuade  into  his 
service. 

The  great  thoroughfare  was  full  of  fugitives,  and  soon 
among  them  the  mother  recognized  a  man  of  her  acquaint- 
ance, who  took  charge  of  her  and  the  children.  The  ma- 
jority, like  Clancy,  had  been  delayed  by  efforts  in  behalf 
of  the  sick  or  injured,  and  already  had  their  hands  full. 
Others  were  so  dazed  and  horror-stricken  that  they  moved 
about  aimlessly,  or  sat  upon  the  pavement,  moaning  and 
lamenting  in  despairing  accents.  It  would  appear  as  if  the 
emergency  developed  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of 
every  mind.  Some  were  evidently  crazed.  As  Mara  stood 
beside  Mrs.  Hunter  to  prevent  the  crowd  from  trampling 
upon,  her,  she  saw  a  half-dressed  man,  breaking  his  way 
through  the  throng.     The  maniac  stopped  before  her,  and 


A    HOMELESS   CITY  363 

for  a  moment  fixed  upon  her  wild,  blood-shot  eyes,  then 
placed  an  infant  in  her  arms,  and  with  a  jell  bounded  away. 
Mara,  horror-stricken,  saw  that  the  child  was  dead,  and  that 
its  neck:  was  evidently  broken.  Clancy  came  up  immedi- 
ately, and  taking  the  infant  laid  it  down  out  of  the  central 
path,  for  all  kept  to  the  middle  of  the  street. 

As  he  did  so,  he  heard  his  name  called  by  a  voice  he 
knew  too  well.  The  feeling  it  inspired  compelled  him  again 
to  recognize  how  false  he  had  been  to  himself  and  also  to 
Miss  Ainsley.  Her  summons  now  brought  the  feeling  that 
he  too,  like  Mara,  was  bound,  and  he  went  instantly  to 
her  side. 

''Ah,  you  deserted  me!"   she  said  bitterly. 

He  silently  pointed  to  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  presented  so 
sad  a  spectacle  that  even  the  exacting  girl  had  no  further 
words  of  reproach,  but  she  glanced  keenly  at  Mara. 

''We  feared  a  tidal  wave,"  Mr.  Willoughby  explained, 
"and  so  decided  to  seek  the  upper  portion  of  the  city." 

"Mrs.  Willoughby,  if  you  are  able  to  walk,"  said  Clancy, 
"your  husband  must  aid  me  and  Aun'  Sheba  in  carrying 
Mrs.  Hunter,  who  is  very  badly  injured." 

"Oh,  now  that  the  first  terrible  shock  to  my  nerves  is 
over,  I  am  as  well  able  to  take  care  of  myself  as  any  of 
you, ' '  replied  the  spirited  little  woman. 

"That's  like  you!"  exclaimed  Clancy  heartily.  Then 
turning,  he  said  with  emphasis,  "Miss  Ainsley,  you  see 
that  a  man's  first  duty  to-night  is  to  the  injured  and  utterly 
helpless." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  replied  in  tones  meant  for  his  ear 
only,  "I  did  not  know  you  owed  so  much  to  Mrs.  Hunter 
and  her  niece." 

"I  shall  owe  my  services  to  every  injured  man  and 
woman  until  all  are  rescued,"  was  his  quiet  reply.  Then 
he  helped  Mr.  Willoughby  place  Mrs.  Hunter  on  the  im- 
provised support,  and  between  them  they  bore  her  onward, 
the  others  following. 

Their  progress  was  necessarily  slow,  for  the  street  was 


864  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

encumbered  not  only  with  fugitives  like  themselves,  but 
also  with  tangled  telegraph-wires  and  all  sorts  of  other  im- 
pediments. Once  they  had  to  cower  tremblingly  under  a 
tall  building  while  a  fire-engine  thundered  by,  threatening 
to  bring  down  upon  them  the  shattered  walls.  As  they  re- 
sumed their  slow  and  painful  march  Bodine  met  them,  his 
glad,  outspoken  greeting  to  Mara  filling  her  heart  with  new 
grief  and  dismay,  while  it  allayed  the  jealousy  and  bitter- 
ness of  Miss  Ainsley's  wounded  pride. 

The  Northern  girl  had  heard  the  report  that  Mara  and 
the  veteran  were  engaged,  and  here  was  confirmation. 
Mara  inquired  eagerly  after  Mrs.  Bodine  and  Ella,  then 
took  her  place  at  the  captain's  side,  while  Clancy  moved 
on  with  set  teeth  and  a  desperate  rallying  of  his  physical 
powers,  which  he  knew  to  be  failing. 

Now  that  Ella  was  in  the  square,  young  Houghton  was 
not  so  impetuous  as  to  ignore  the  claims  of  nature  or  to  be 
regardless  of  his  outward  appearance.  He  again  returned 
to  his  home,  and  saw  Sam  kneeling  and  praying  aloud  near 
the  barn,  with  the  two  horses  standing  beside  him. 

"Sam,  go  to  the  square,"  he  shouted. 

"Can't  lebe  dese  bosses.  Dey's  bofe  lookin'  ter  me,  an' 
I'se  prayin  fer  dem  an  us  all." 

"No  matter  about  the  horses.  The  house  is  too  near." 
Then  he  ventured  into  the  butler's  pantry,  cleansed  his  face 
and  the  cuts  and  bruises  about  his  head,  snatched  some 
food,  and  hastened  away.  He  believed  he  bad  a  hard 
night's  work  before  him,  and  that  he  must  maintain  his 
strength.  He  had  not  gone  very  far  down  Meeting  Street 
before  he  met  the  group  accompanying  Mrs.  Hunter.  With 
a  glad  cry  he  welcomed  Mrs.  Willoughby,  and. was  about 
to  take  her  hand  when  Clancy  said,  "Houghton,  for  God's 
sake,  quick!" 

George  caught  the  end  of  the  litter  while  Clancy  reeled 
backward  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  Mara,  with  a  cry 
she  could  not  repress,  caught  him  in  her  arms  and  sunk 
with  him  to  the  pavement.     He  gasped  a  moment  or  two, 


A    HOMELESS    CITY  365 

then   his   eyes   closed;    he   became   still  and   looked   as   if 

dead. 

Again  the  supremely  dreaded  subterranean  rumble  was 
heard.  Mr.  Willoughby  shouted  wildly,  "Forward,  quick! 
We  can't  stay  here  under  these  buildings."  He  and 
Houghton  went  on  with  a  rush,  the  rest  following  with 
loud  cries.  Miss  Ainsley's  piercing  scream  ringing  out  above 
all.     Sbe  did  not  even  look  back  at  her  prostrate  suitor. 

Mara  paid  no  heed  to  the  passing  shock,  but  with  eyes 
full  of  anguish  looked  upon  the  white  face  in  her  lap. 

"Mara,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  Bodine  after  the  awful 
sound  had  passed.  She  started  violently  and  began  to 
tremble. 

"Mara,  go  with  the  others.  I  will  stay  with  Mr. 
Clancy." 

She  shood  her  head,  but  was  speechless. 

He  stood  beside  her,  his  face  full  of  deep  and  perplexed 
trouble. 

At  last  she  said  hoarsely,  "You  go  and  bring  aid.  He 
saved  aunty  and  me,  and  I  cannot  leave  him." 

At  this  moment  Aun'  Sheba  came  running  back,  ex- 
claiming: "Good  Lawd  forgib  me  dat  I  should  leab  my 
honey  lam'!  My  narbes  all  shook  out  ob  jint  like  de 
houses,  an'  my  legs  run  away  wid  me,  dog  gone  'emJ  Dey's 
bruDg  me  back  howsomeber.  Now,  Missy  Mara,  gib  him 
ter  me;"  and  taking  him  under  the  arms  she  dragged  him 
by  the  adjacent  tall  buildings.  "Missy,"  she  added,  sink- 
ing down  with  her  burden,  "go  on  ter  de  squar  wid  Marse 
Bodine,  an'  tell  dat  ar  young  Houghton  ter  come  quick, 
'fore  my  legs  run  away  wid  me  agin." 

"Both  of  you  go  to  the  square,"  commanded  Bodine  in 
the  tone  he  would  have  used  on  the  battlefield.  "I  will 
stay.     There  shall  be  no  useless  risk  of  life." 

Mara  lifted  her  dark  eyes  to  his  face.  Even  at  that 
moment  he  knew  he  should  never  forget  their  expression. 
"My  friend,"  she  said  in  low,  agonized  tones,  "he  may  be 
dying,  he  may  be  dead.     I  cannot,  will  not  leave  him." 


366  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"No,  he  ain't  dead,"  said  Aua'  Sheba,  with  her  hand 
over  Clancy's  heart,  "but  seems  purty  nigh  it.  Him  jes 
gone  beyon  his  strengt.  Ole  missus  po'ful  heby  ef  she  ain't 
fat  like  me.  Tank  de  Lawd,  I  hasn't  ter  be  toted  ter-night. 
No  one  but  Kern  ud  tote  me.  Po'  Kern!  him  heart  jes 
break  wen  he  know." 

Bodine  stood  guard  silent  and  grim  while  Mara  me- 
chanically chafed  one  of  Clancy's  hands.  She  was  now  far 
beyond  tears,  far  beyond  anything  except  the  anguish  de- 
picted in  her  face.  In  a  confused  way  she  felt  that  the 
terrible  events  of  the  night  and  her  own  heart  had  over- 
powered her;  and,  with  a  half -despairing  recklessness,  she 
merely  lived  from  moment  to  moment. 

The  earthquake  had  ceased  to  have  personal  terrors  for 
Bodine.  He  had  faced  death  too  often.  Nevertheless  a 
great  fear  oppressed  him  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  girl 
he  loved. 

The  square  was  not  far  away;  Houghton  and  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  came  hastening  back,  and  Clancy  was  soon  added 
to  the  group  of  sufferers  under  Dr.  Devoe's  care. 

To  Miss  Ainsley's  general  disgust  at  a  city  in  which  she 
had  been  treated  to  such  a  rude  and  miserable  experience, 
was  added  a  little  self-disgust  that  she  had  rushed  away  and 
left  Clancy  to  his  fate.  She  tried  to  satisfy  herself  by  think- 
ing that  he  had  acted  in  much  the  same  way  toward  her, 
but  it  would  not  answer.  Mrs.  Hunter's  blood-stained  face, 
rendered  tenfold  more  ghastly  by  the  light  of  the  flames, 
was  too  strong  refutation,  and  the  fact  that  Mara  had  re- 
mained with  Clancy  had  its  sting.  She  saw  Ella  and  many 
others  ministering  to  the  injured  and  feeble,  and  felt  that 
she  must  redeem  her  character.  When  the  unconscious  man 
was  brought  in,  therefore,  she  hastened  forward  to  receive 
and  in  a  measure  claim  him. 

Although  mentally  comparing  her  conduct  with  that 
of  Mara,  Houghton  and  Mr.  Willoughby  thought  it  was 
all  right,  put  Clancy  in  her  charge,  and  began  to  follow 
Dr.  Devoe's  directions.     Mara  gave  the  girl  a  look  which 


A    HOMELESS    CITY  367 

brought  a  blush  to  her  face,  and  then  devoted  herself  to 
htjr  auDt. 

Captain  Bodine's  first  act  was  to  speak  gently  and  en- 
couragingly to  his  daughter  and  cousin,  congratulating  the 
latter  on  her  recovery. 

"Yes,  Hugh,"  said  the  old  lady,  "I'm  safe,  safer  than 
I've  been  at  other  times  in  my  life.  This  is  but  one  more 
storm,  and  it  is  only  driving  me  nearer  the  harbor.  You 
look  dreadfully;  you're  worn  out." 

"More  by  anxiety  than  exertion.  It  is  awful  to  be  so 
helpless  at  such  a  time." 

"Sit  down  here  on  the  grass  beside  me.  I  want  to  talk. 
I  may  not  have  much  more  chance  in  this  world,  but  feel 
sure  'that  I  shall  do  my  share  in  the  next.  Oh,  Hugh, 
Hugh,  we've  all  been  shaken  like  naughty  children,  and 
some  of  us  may  be  the  better  and  the  wiser  for  it.  If  Ella 
and  that  gallant  knight  of  hers  survive,  how  happy  they 
will  be!  It  makes  me  happy  even  to  think  of  it,  though 
for  aught  we  know  the  earth  may  open  and  swallow  us  all 
within  the  next  five  minutes." 

"Yes,  the  dear  child!     Thank  God  for  her  sake!" 

"For  your  own  too.  There  is  Mara  safe  also.  Poor  Mrs. 
Hunter!  she  looks  death-like  to  me.  You  look  awfully  too. 
I  never  saw  you  so  pale  and  haggard. ' ' 

"Cap'n  Bodine,  Marse  Houghton  send  you  dis, "  said 
Jube  at  his  elbow,  proffering  a  glass  of  wine. 

The  captain  turned  his  startled  eyes  upon  his  old  em- 
ployer, who  lay  just  out  of  earshot  of  their  low  tones. 

"Take  it,  Hugh,"  said  his  cousin  earnestly.  "Drink  to 
the  death  of  hate.     He  and  I  have  made  up." 

The  veteran  hesitated,  and  a  spasm,  as  if  from  a  wrench 
of  pain,  passed  over  his  face.  Then  he  took  the  glass,  and 
said  coldly,  "I  drink  to  your  recovery,  sir." 

"I  thank  you,"  was  Mr.  Houghton's  response. 

"A  very  fair  beginning,  Hugh,  for  a  man,"  his  cousin 
resumed.  "You  might  as  well  give  up  at  once,  though. 
Everything  is  going  to  be  shaken  down  that  shouldn't  stand. " 


368  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Ominous  words  to  the  veteran,  for  he  felt  that  his  dream 
of  happiness  was  falling  in  ruins. 

By  the  natural  force  of  circumstances  the  several  char- 
acters of  our  story  had  been  brought  comparatively  near  to- 
gether, yet  were  separated  into  little  groups.  Dr.  Devoe 
passed  from  one  to  the  other  as  his  services  were  needed, 
nor  were  they  confined  to  those  known  to  us.  He  simply 
made  a  little  open  space  beside  Mr.  Houghton  his  head- 
quarters, where  he  left  his  remedies  under  the  charge  of 
the  invalid,  Jube,  and  old  Tobe.  Other  physicians  had 
joined  him  and  were  indefatigable  in  the  work  of  relief. 
Some  of  the  city  clergy  were  also  in  the  square,  speaking 
words  of  Christian  faith  and  hope,  which  never  before  had 
seemed  so  precious. 

To  Clancy  Dr.  Devoe  gave  a  good  deal  of  attention.  Not 
only  was  his  hair  singed,  but  his  neck  and  hands  were  badly 
burned,  and  his  swoon  was  so  obstinate  as  to  indicate  great 
exhaustion.  This  could  scarcely  be  otherwise,  for  he  pos- 
sessed no  such  physique  as  young  Houghton  had  devel- 
oped. Moreover,  he  had  passed  through  a  mental  strain 
and  excitement  which  no  one  could  comprehend  except  Mara, 
and  she  but  partially.  Houghton  had  put  his  coat  under 
the  head  of  the  unconscious  man,  and  was  doing  his  best 
for  him.  So  also  was  Miss  Ainsley  now.  She  had  pur- 
posely turned  her  back  on  Mara,  and  her  face  was  toward 
the  adjacent  conflagration,  which  distinctly  lighted  up  her 
face  and  form,  transforming  her  into  a  vision  of  marvellous 
beauty.  Her  long  hair  had  fallen  in  a  golden  veil  over  her 
bare  shoulders  and  neck;  her  dark  eyes  were  lustrous  with 
excitement  and  full  of  solicitude.  When  at  last  Clancy 
opened  his  eyes  his  first  impression  was  that  an  angel  was 
ministering  to  him  in  a  light  too  brilliant  to  be  earthly.  He 
recognized  Miss  Ainsley's  voice,  however,  and  when  he  had 
taken  some  of  the  wine  which  the  doctor  pressed  to  his  lips, 
all  that  had  happened  came  back  to  him.  George  now  re- 
turned in  solicitude  to  his  father,  also  designing  to  take  a 
little  much-needed  rest,  while  the  doctor  gave  his  attention 


A    HOMELESS    CITY  369 

to  Other  patients.  With  retarning  consciousness  Clancy  was 
overpowered  by  a  deep  sense  of  gratitude  to  this  beautiful 
creature,  and  also  by  a  strong  feeling  of  compunction  that 
he  had  sought  the  regard  which  she  now  seemed  to  bestow 
unstintedly.  "Like  Mara,"  he  thought,  "there  is  nothing 
left  for  me  but  to  fulfil  obligations  from  which  I  cannot 
honorably  withdraw." 

''You  are  indeed  kind  and  devoted,"  he  said  feebly.  "I 
fear  I  have  made  a  good  deal  of  trouble." 

"No,  Mr.  Clancy,  you  have  gone  beyond  your  strength. 
In  fact,  we  are  all  distracted  and  half  beside  ourselves. 
Won't  you  let  me  take  your  head  into  my  lap?  If  I  am 
caring  for  you  I  can  better  endure  these  awful  scenes." 
And  she  made  the  change. 

"I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  leaving  you  so  abruptly 
on  the  Battery.  Mrs.  Hunter  and  Miss  Wallingford  really 
had  no  one  to  look  to." 

"Captain  Bodine  evidently  thinks  Miss  Wallingford 
should  look  to   him." 

"In  such  an  emergency  he  would  be  even  more  helpless 

than  she." 

"Oh,  well,  I  hope  the  worst  is  now  over  for  us  all,  and 
that  we  can  soon  get  away  from  this  awful  town." 

He  gave  no  answer.  Miss  Ainsley  knew  that  her  father 
was  not  far  distant,  and  that  he  would  come  for  her  by  the 
first  train  which  could  reach  the  city.  Accustomed  all  her 
life  to  look  at  everything  from  the  central  point  of  self,  she 
now,  in  the  greater  sense  of  safety,  began  to  give  some 
thought  to  the  future.  Her  first  conscious  decision  was  to 
try  to  be  as  brave  as  possible,  and  so  leave  a  good  impres- 
sion. The  second  was  to  get  away  from  the  city  at  once, 
and  she  hoped  she  might  never  see  it  again.  If  Clancy 
would  go  with  her,  if  he  would  even  eventually  join  her  at 
the  North,  she  believed  that  she  could  marry  him,  so  favor- 
able was  the  impression  that  he  had  made,  but  she  felt  that 
she  was  making  a  great  concession,  which  he  must  duly  ap- 
preciate.   At  present  the  one  consuming  wish  was  to  escape, 


870  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

to  get  away  from  scenes  which  to  her  were  horrible  in  the 
last  degree. 

In  truth  only  a  brave  spirit  could  witness  what  was  tak- 
ing place  on  every  side,  or  maintain  fortitude  under  the 
overwhelming  impression  of  personal  danger — an  impres- 
sion which  soon  banished  the  partial  sense  of  security  felt 
after  reaching  the  square.  The  extent  of  the  terror  inspired 
by  the  earthquake  can  best  be  measured  by  the  fact  that  al- 
though columns  of  smoke  and  fire,  consuming  homes  and 
threatening  to  lay  the  city  in  ashes,  were  rising  at  several 
points,  they  were  scarcely  heeded.  The  roar  of  adjacent 
flames  could  even  be  heard  by  the  vast  concourse,  but  ears 
were  strained  to  detect  that  more  terrible  roar  that  seemed 
to  come  from  unknown  depths  beneath  the  ocean  and  the 
land,  and  to  threaten  a  fate  as  awful  and  mysterious  as  it- 
self. Even  many  of  the  white  population  could  not  help 
sharing  in  some  degree  the  general  belief  among  the  negroes 
that  the  end  of  all  things  was  at  hand.  The  nervous  shock 
sustained  by  all  prepared  the  way  for  the  wildest  fears  and 
conjectures.  As  in  the  instance  of .  a  bloody  battle,  those 
were  the  best  ofi  who  were  the  most  occupied. 

Thousands,  however,  sat  and  waited  in  sickening  appre- 
hension, fearing  some  new  horror  with  every  passing  mo- 
ment. There  was  a  sound  of  weeping  throughout  the 
square,  while  above  this  monotone  rose  groans,  cries,  hys- 
terical screams,  loud  petitions  for  mercy,  and  snatches  of 
hymns.  The  emotional  negroes  left  no  moments  of  silence. 
The  majority  of  the  white  people  had  become  comparatively 
calm.  They  talked  in  low  tones,  encouraging  and  soothing 
one  another;  the  lips  of  even  those  who  seldom  looked 
heavenward  now  often  moved  in  silent  prayer;  fathers,  on 
whose  brows  rested  a  heavy  load  of  care,  tried  to  cheer 
their  trembling  families;  and  mothers  clasped  their  sobbing 
children  in  their  arms,  with  the  feeling  that  even  death 
should  not  part  them. 

Over  all  this  array  of  pallid,  haggard  faces,  shone  the 
flames  of  the  still  unquenched  conflagration. 


THE    TERROR    BY    NIGHT*'  371 


(( 


CHAPTER   XLIII 


THE   TERROR  BY   NIGHT" 


WHEN  Aun'  Sheba  saw  that  Mara,  Mrs.  Hunter, 
and  Clancy  were  among  friends,  with  a  physi- 
cian in  attendance,  she  sat  down  by  her  daughter 
Sissy,  and  took  little  Vilet  in  her  lap. 

"I  kin'er  feel,"  she  said,  "dat  ef  de  yearth  is  gwine  ter 
swaller  us,  I'se  like  ter  go  down  wid  dis  chile.  Vilet  shuah 
to  go  up  ag'in,  an'  p'raps  de  Lawd  ud  say,  'You  kin  come 
too,  Aun'  Sheba.'  " 

The  sound  of  her  voice  so  far  restored  Uncle  Sheba  to 
his  normal  condition  that  he  was  able  to  creep  on  his  hands 
and  knees  to  a  position  just  behind  his  wife,  where  he 
crouched  as  if  she  were  a  sort  of  general  protection. 

Vilet,  roused  at  her  grandmother's  voice,  looked  around, 
and  then  asked  in  her  plamtive  voice,  "  Whar's  daddy  ?" 

"He's  hep'n'  put'n'  out  de  fiahs,  deah  chile." 

"My  bref  gittin'  bery  sho't,  granny.  I  can't  stay  dis  side 
ob  de  riber  much  longer;  I  wants  ter  see  daddy  'fore  I  go. " 

"Po'  chile  and  po'  Kern,"  groaned  Aun'  Sheba.  "We 
doesn't  know  whar  he  be,  an'  I'se  'feerd  he  couldn't  lebe 
off  puttin'  out  de  fiahs." 

From  time  to  time  Vilet  wailed,  "Daddy,  come,  come 
quick.     I'se  gwine  fas,  an'  I  wants  tJ  see  you  oust  mo'," 

Captain  Bodine  heard  the  cry,  and,  having  rested  him- 
self a  little,  came  to  Aun'  Sheba  and  asked,  "Do  you  know 
where  Kern  is  ?' ' 

"I  doan,  Marse  Cap'n,  but  he  mought  be  at  dis  niffhest 

fiah." 


872  THE  EARTH   TREMBLED 

"I'll  see,"  said  the  veteran,  halting  away  with  the  feel- 
ing that  he  must  do  something  to  divert  his  torturing 
thoughts. 

Watson  was  soon  pointed  out  to  him,  where  with  stern 
and  quiet  face  he  was  carrying  out  his  orders.  When  told 
that  Vilet  was  near  and  calling  for  him,  the  veins  came  out 
on  his  forehead,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  irresolute.  Then 
he  cried,  "No,  sah,  I  can't  go.  Fo'  de  Lawd,  ef  she  die  an' 
we  all  die  I  won't  lebe  my  duty. " 

"You're  a  man,"  said  Bodine,  clapping  him  on  the  shoul- 
der, "I  will  arrange  this." 

He  went  direct  to  Kern's  superior  officer  and  briefly  told 
him  the  circumstances,  then  added,  "I  know  these  people. 
Watson  deserves  consideration.  I  will  take  his  place.  I 
can  hold  the  hose  as  well  as  he,  and  will  stand  as  near  the 
fire  as  he  does  if  you  will  order  him  to  go  to  his  dying  child 
for  a  few  minutes." 

"In  that  ease  I  can  comply,"  said  the  officer.  "Watson 
has  behaved  splendidly,  and  he'll  come  back  soon." 

The  first  thing  Kern  knew,  the  hose  was  taken  from  his 
hand,  and  he  ordered  to  go  and  return  within  ten  minutes. 
He  hesitated.  "Obey  orders,"  was  the  stern  command. 
Then  he  rushed  away. 

The  plaintive  cry,  "Daddy,  daddy,"  guided  him,  and 
Vilet  was  in  his  arms. 

"Chile,  deah  chile!"  was  all  he  could  say  as  he  kissed 
the  thin  face  again  and  again. 

"Now  my  min's  at  res',"  said  the  little  girl,  with  a  sigh 
of  ineffable  content.  "You  'member,  daddy — you  says — 
'Yes,  Vilet.'— I'se  a-goin',  daddy.     De  angels — is  all  ready 

to  tote  me  to  Heben.    I  kin  jes'  heah  dere  wings — rustlin' 

roun'  me.  1  was  jes'  waitin' — an'  hol'n  back — ter  see  you 
oust  mo'.     Good- by,  moder— granny." 

Then  she  feebly  wound  her  little  arms  about  Kern's  neck 
and  whispered,  "Good- by,  daddy,  fer  jes'  a  lil  while,  i'se 
wait  neah  de  gate  fer  you  shuah.'^ 

It  would  seem  that  she  put  all  her  remaining  strength 


*'THE    TERROR    BY   NIGHT''  373 

into  this  eSort,  for  her  head  fell  over  on  hi^  shoulder;  she 
quivered  a  moment,  then  was  still.  Kern  could  not  repress 
one  deep  groan.  He  looked  for  a  moment  of  agony  into  his 
child's  face,  kissed  it,  then  placing  her  in  Ann'  Sheba's  lap, 
departed  as  swiftly  as  he  came.  Sissy  was  so  overcome  as 
to  be  helpless. 

"Yonr  time  wasn't  up,"  said  the  veteran. 

"Her  time  was  up,  Cap'n  Bodine,"  Kern  managed  to  re- 
ply, his  face  rigid  with  repressed  emotion.  "She  die  in  my 
arms.     God  bless  yo'  fer  you'se  feelins  fer  a  po'  man." 

"Watson,  I  do  feel  for  you  and  with  you.  Our  hearts 
are  all  breaking  to-night.  Take  care  of  yourself.  You 
have  a  wife  and  children  still  to  live  for."  And  Bodine 
halted  back  and  seated  himself  by  his  cousin. 

Alas !  for  thousands  the  words  of  Bodine  were  only  too 
true.  As  they  contemplated  what  had  happened  and  what 
might  occur  at  any  moment,  they  felt  that  heavy,  crushing 
pain,  unlike  all  others,  which  gathers  at  the  heart,  over- 
whelming the  spirit  and  threatening  physical  dissolution  at 
one  and  the  same  time^ 

Yet  such  is  the  power  of  human  affection  and  Christian 
faith,  that  they  won  many  triumphs,  even  during  that  night 
of  horrors.  In  Ella  and  the  dying  woman,  whose  head  she 
pillowed  on  her  breast,  were  examples  of  both.  The  girl's 
heart  was  indeed  pitiful  and  sympathetic,  and  the  poor  crea- 
ture knew  that  it  was,  for  in  broken,  gasping  words  she  told 
her  brief,  pathetic  story,  so  like  that  of  many  other  women 
in  the  South.  Once  she  was  a  happy  girl  at  home  on  a  small 
plantation,  but  father,  brothers,  and  lover  had  all  perished 
in  the  war.  Home  and  mother  had  since  been  lost  and  she 
was  fighting  out  life's  long,  weary  battle  when  this  final  dis- 
aster brought  the  end.  "Yes,  kind  lady,  1  reckon  I'm  dy- 
ing: I  hope  so.  I  couldn't  take  care  of  myself  any  longer, 
and  I'd  rather  join  those  who  have  gone  on  before  me  than 
trust  to  the  charity  of  this  world.  I  am  very  weary,  very 
heavy  laden,  and  I'd  rather  go  to  Him  who  said,  'Come  to 
Me.'     If  you  can  stay  with  me  a  little  longer — I  don't  fear, 


374  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

but  it's  very  sweet  to  have  human  kindness  and  company 
down  into  the  dark  valley." 

Her  words  proved  true.  She  evidently  perished  from  in- 
ternal injuries,  for  she  soon  ceased  to  gasp,  and  her  head  lay 
still  against  the  bosom  of  the  sobbing  girl. 

Dr.  Devoe  was  present  during  the  last  moments,  then 
gently  relieved  Ella  from  her  lifeless  burden,  and  supported 
her  to  her  father  on  whose  shoulder  she  shed  those  natural 
tears  which  soon  bring  relief  to  the  hearts  of  the  young. 
George  Houghton  and  Jube  carried  the  body  to  the  place 
set  apart  for  the  dead.  Then  George  returned  to  his  father's 
side,  but  looked  wistfully  at  Ella  with  an  unspeakable  long- 
ing to  comfort  her. 

"I  don't  wonder,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Houghton,  inter- 
preting his  thoughts.     "Go  and  speak  to  her." 

George  approached  timidly,  and  said,  "Miss  Bodine." 

She  started,  raised  her  head,  and  began  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

"I x_     Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  make  you 

understand  how  my  father  and  I  have  sympathized  with 
your  brave —  Well,  you  were  so  kind  and  patient  with 
that  poor  woman.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you, 
and  I  will,"  and  he  hastened  away. 

She  called,  "I  don't  need  anything,  Mr.  Houghton.  In- 
deed  I  do  not.  It  would  only  distress  me—"  But  he  was 
out  of  hearing.  "Oh,"  she  moaned  again  on  her  father's 
shoulder,  "why  will  he  take  risks?" 

It  was  evident  that  Mr.  Houghton  shared  her  anxiety, 
for  he  divined  his  son's  purpose,  and  looked  with  troubled 
face  for  his  return.  He  soon  came  back  carrying  another 
mattress,  pillows  and  blankets.  Sam,  compelled  to  leave 
the  horses,  followed  with  a  basket  of  provisions.  Ella  was 
clothed  in  little  besides  a  light  wrapper,  and  had  shivered 
more  than  once  in  the  night  air.  George  tried  to  induce  her 
and  Mrs.  Bodine  to  accept  of  the  mattress,  but  they  asked 
as  a  favor  that  it  might  be  placed  under  Mrs.  Hunter.  He 
readily  complied,  saying  he  would  get  another  for  them. 

At  this  moment  came  the  ominous  groan  of  the  severe 


''THE    TERROR    BY    MGHT "  375 

shock  which  occurred  at  about  half-past  two  o'clock  Wednes- 
day morning.  To  the  terrified  people  it  was  like  the  growl 
of  some  ravening  beast  rushing  upon  them,  and  a  long  wail- 
ing cry  blended  with  the  horrible  roar  as  it  swept  under  and 
over  them,  then  died  away  in  the  northwest. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Houghton,"  sobbed  Ella,  when  her  voice  could 
be  heard,  "please  don't  go  away — please  don't  go  near  a 
building  again." 

"George,"  added  his  father,  almost  sternly,  "not  with 
my  consent  will  you  leave  me  again  till  we  learn  more  defi- 
nitely what  our  fate  is  to  be.  If  you  were  m  the  house 
when  this  shock  occurred,  you  might  have  perished.  It  is 
no  longer  a  question  of  more  or  less  comfort." 

"I  reckon  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine.  "It's  a  question  of 
ever  seeing  the  sun  rise  again.  We  may  as  well  speak  out 
what  is  in  our  minds,  and  get  ready  for  a  city  not  made  with 
hands." 

"I  wish  we  were  all  as  ready  to  go  as  you  are,  Cousin 
Sophy,"  Ella  whispered. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I've  more  property  in  that  city  than  in 
this  wrecked  town,  and  'where  your  treasure  is,  there  will 
your  heart  be  also.'  "  Then  she  added,  "You'll  be  spared, 
dear  child.  You  and  your  knight  will  see  many  happy 
years.     God  bless  you  both." 

"Oh,  cousin!  it  is  such  a  comfort,  even  at  this  awful 
time,  to  see  him,  to  know  he  is  near,  to  think  he  came  for 
—for  us!" 

"For  you,  dear  little  goose.  He'd  face  earthquakes, 
volcanoes,  tornadoes,  cyclones,  and  even  his  father  be- 
fore this  well-deserved  shaking  converted  him,  for  your 
sake." 

"Cousin,"  whispered  the  girl,  "I'm  so  glad.  Is  it  wrong 
to  be  glad  at  such  a  time  ?" 

"Wrong  to  be  glad  when  God  loves  you  and  a  good  man 
loves  you  ?  I  reckon  not.  All  the  quakes  that  ever  shook 
this  crazy  old  earth  are  bagatelles  compared  with  such 
facts." 


376  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

''Oh,   cousin,   you   are   such   a   tower   of   strength   and 

comfort!" 

"I'm  a  leaning  tower,"  replied  the  old  lady,  whose  vein 
of  humor  ran  through  all  her  thoughts,  "but  I'm  leaning  on 
what  won't  fail  me.  Nestle  down  by  my  side,  dear  child. 
You  are  shivering,  and  this  extra  blanket  will  do  us  both 
good.  Now  be  comfortable,  and  believe  with  me  that  noth- 
ing in  the  universe  can  or  will  harm  you. " 

"Poor  Mara!"  Ella  sighed. 

"Yes,  I've  been  watching  and  grieving  over  her.  i 
never  saw  any  face  more  expressive  of  suffering  than  hers. 
1 -don't  understand  her  unless— unless— well,  time  will  show, 
that  is,  if  there  is  much  more  time  for  me." 

"Ob,  cousin,  we  never  could  spare  you!" 

"That  is  what  I  used  to  think  about  my  husband,  but 
he  always  went  when  sailing  orders  came,  and  I  survived. 
1  feel  to-night  as  if  he  and  the  boys  were  just  waiting  ofi 
shore,  if  this  tossing  and  pitching  earth  can  be  called  shore, 
for  me  to  join  them." 

Captain  Bodine  sat  through  the  shock  without  moving 
a  muscle.  His  eyes  rested  wistfully  on  Mara.  With  an 
indescribable  pang  he  saw  that  in  the  supreme  moment  of 
general  terror  her  eyes  turned  not  to  him  but  to  Clancy, 
and  that  she  made  a  half  involuntary  movement  as  if  to  go 
to  him.  The  glance,  the  act,  combined  with  what  had  gone 
before,  were  too  significant,  and  Bodine  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands  that  she  might  not  see  his  trouble.  She  knew 
it  all  the  more  surely,  yet  felt  how  powerless  she  was  to 
console  him. 

"Oh,  my  blind,  blind  folly!"  she  groaned  inwardly. 
"If  I  had  been  true  to  my  heart,  I  might  be  caring  for 
Owen  instead  of  that  woman  who  left  him  to  die,  and  my 
father's  friend  acting  like  a  father  toward  us  both.  I  wanted 
to  be  so  heroic  and  self-sacrificing,  and  I've  only  sacrificed 
those  I  love  most." 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  so  fully  under  the  influence  of  anodynes 
as  not  to  be  cognizant  of  what  was  taking  place,  and  Bodine, 


''THE    TERROR    BY   NIGHT''  377 

soldier- like,  was  not  long  in  reaching  his  decision.  Eising, 
he  went  aside  with  Dr.  Devoe,  and  said,  "Miss  Wallingford 
is  keeping  up  from  the  sheer  force  of  will.  Nothing  but 
your  command  can  induce  her  to  yield  and  take  such  rest 
as  can  be  obtained  here.  I  do  not  think  you  can  interpose 
too  soon.     1  will  watch  Mrs.  Hunter." 

Mara  had  indeed  reached  the  limit  of  endurance,  and  the 
physician  quickly  detected  the  fact.  He  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  arm,  and  gently  raised  her  to  her  feet  as  he  said, 
"1  am  autocrat  here.  Even  kings  and  generals  must  obey 
their  doctor.  So  1  shall  ask  no  permission  to  place  you 
beside  Mrs.  Bodine.  She  and  rest  can  do  you  more  good 
than  I  can.  Captain  Bodine  and  I  will  look  after  Mrs. 
Hunter." 

Mara  gave  the  veteran  a  grateful  glance  and  yielded. 
Then  she  buried  her  face  in  Mrs.  Bodine's  neck,  and  was 
silent  until  she  slept  from  physical  exhaustion. 

Miss  Ainsley,  with  multitudes  of  others,  yielded  to  her 
terror  at  the  passing  of  the  midnight  earthquake.  She 
shrieked  and  half  rose  in  her  wild  impulse  to  fly.  Then 
apparently  forgetting  Clancy  she  piteously  begged  Dr.  Devoe 
to  give  her  something  that  would  certainly  bring  oblivion 
for  a  few  hours  at  least.  He  good-naturedly  complied. 
When  the  opiate  began  to  take  effect  she  was  placed  on 
the  mattress  beside  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  was  soon  in  stupor. 
Clancy  had  so  far  recovered  that  he  was  able  to  sit  up,  and 
he  felt  that  he  should  watch  beside  the  girl  who  he  believed 
had  been  so  devoted  to  him  in  his  unconsciousness. 

Dr.  Devoe  in  excuse  for  Miss  Ainsley  said,  "We  can't 
make  too  much  allowance  to-night  for  every  one.  Many 
strong  men  are  utterly  overcome  and  nauseated  by  these 
shocks.     No  wonder  women  cannot  face  them." 

"I  think  Miss  Ainsley  has  borne  up  wonderfully," 
Clancy  replied. 

"Oh,  yes,  as  well  as  the  average.  It's  a  question  of 
nerves  with  the  majority." 

Clancy  sat  down  and  looked  with  pity  at  the  beautiful 


378  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

face  and  dishevelled  hair.  "Poor  girl!"  he  thought,  ''she 
did  her  best  by  me.  Indeed,  1  had  scarcely  thought  her 
capable  of  such  devotion.  By  all  that's  honorable  I'm 
bound  to  her  now.  Well,  eventually  1  can  give  her  a  truer 
afiection,  for  she  has  ceased  to  be  merely  a  part  of  my  am- 
bitious scheme.  By  our  own  acts  Mara  and  I  are  separated, 
and,  however  deep  our  grief  may  be,  it  must  be  hidden 
from  all." 

Thus  he  and  Captain  Bodine  sat  on  either  side  of  the 
pallet,  each  immersed  in  painful  thought,  oblivious  of  the 
strange  scenes  enacted  all  around  them.  They  did  not  feel 
then  that  they  could  speak  to  each  other. 

The  veteran  was  perplexed,  and  his  proud  spirit  also 
labored  under  a  deep  sense  of  wrong.  It  was  evident  that 
he  had  been  deceived  by  Mara,  and  that  all  along  she  had 
loved  the  man  so  near  to  him,  loved  him  better  than  her 
own  life.  Why  had  she  concealed  the  fact  ?  Why  had  she 
been  so  cold  and  harsh  toward  Clancy  himself  until  the 
a.wful  events  of  the  night  and  peril  to  life  had  overpowered 
her  reserve  and  revealed  her  heart?  He  could  think  of  no 
other  explanation  than  that  afforded  by  the  unconscious  girl 
over  whom  Clancy  watched,  fie  had  heard  of  the  young 
man's  devotion  to  Miss  Ainsley,  and,  from  what  he  had 
seen,  believed  that  they  were  affianced.  He  was  too  just 
and  large  in  his  judgment  to  think  Mara's  course  toward 
him  was  due  to  pique  and  wounded  pride,  and  he  was  not 
long  in  arriving  at  a  very  fair  explanation  of  her  motives 
and  action.  Keenly  intelligent  and  mature  in  years  he  was 
beyond  the  period  of  passionate  and  inconsiderate  resent- 
ment. Moreover  his  love  for  the  orphan  girl  was  so  true, 
and  the  memory  of  her  father  and  mother  so  dear  to  him, 
that  he  was  able  to  rise  nobly  above  mere  self,  and  resolve 
to  become  the  most  loyal  of  friends,  a  protector  against  her 
very  self.  "Now  I  think  of  it,"  he  mused,  "she  has  never 
said  she  loved  me,  although  she  permitted  me  to  think  she 
did.  Even  when  I  declared  my  love  she  only  said,  'Life 
offers  me  nothing  better  than  to  be  your  wife.'     That  no 


''THE    TERROR   BY  NIGHT"  379 

doubt  was  true  as  she  meant  it,  for  she  then  thought  this 
man  here  was  lost  to  her.  She  did  not  welcome  my  love 
when  she  first  recognized  it,  but  soon  her  spirit  of  self- 
sacrifice  came  in,  and  she  reasoned  that  since  she  could  not 
be  happy  in  herself,  she  would  make  me  happy.  From  the 
very  first  I  believed  that  this  spirit  could  lead  her  to  decep- 
tion for  the  sake  of  others,  and  I  have  not  been  sufficiently 
on  my  guard  against  it.  Yet  how  could  I  suspect  this 
Clancy,  whom  she  so  repelled  and  contemned,  and  who 
was  devoting  himself  to  another  woman  ?  Perhaps  she 
partially  deceived  herself  as  well  as  me.  The  affection 
probably  struck  root  years  since  when  she  and  Clancy  were 
friends-  He  outgrew  it;  she  has  not,  as  she  has  learned  to- 
night, if  not  before.  He  went  to  her  aid  because  he  was 
friendly  in  spite  of  her  apparent  bitterness  toward  him, 
which  perhaps  he  understood  better  than  I.  Possibly  Mrs. 
Hunter  may  have  broken  their  relations,  for  there  is  no 
doubt  about  her  feelings.  Well,  time  must  unravel  the 
snarl.  It  would  now  seem  that  he  is  devoted  to  this  ofirl 
here,  and  she  to  him  as  far  as  she  can  be  to  any  one.  What 
he  will  think  when  he  learns  that  she  ran  shrieking  away 
and  left  him,  while  Mara,  reckless  of  life  itself,  stood  by 
him  to  the  last,  I  cannot  know.  If  he  loves  her  he  will  for- 
give her,  for  no  man  can  blame  a  woman  for  succumbing  to 
the  terror  of  this  night.  Possibly  at  some  distant  day  Mara 
may  still  think  that  life  offers  her  nothing  better  than  to  be 
my  wife;  but  she  shall  be  free,  free  as  air,  and  know,  too, 
that  I  know  all.'* 

Thus  Bodine  communed  with  himself  after  a  habit  learned 
long  ago  in  the  presence  of  danger. 

Clancy  also  was  confronted  by  possible  results  of  his 
action,  the  fear  of  which  enabled  his  cool,  resolute  nature 
to  rise  above  all  other  fear.  He  resolved  to  go  at  once  to 
Aun'  Sheba,  and  caution  her  against  speaking  of  the  scenes 
in  which  she,  with  Mara,  and  himself  had  taken  part. 


380  TEE   EARTH   TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

HOPE   TURNED   INTO   DREAD 

CLANCY  was  guided  by  the  voice  of  Aun'  Sheba,  the 
wailing  of  Sissy,  and  the  groans  and  unearthly 
sounds  to  which  Uncle  Sheba  was  giving  utter- 
ance. The  adjacent  fire  was  so  far  subdued  that  only 
a  red  glow  in  the  sky  above  marked  the  spot.  The  stars 
shone  in  calm,  mocking  serenity  on  the  wide  scene  of  hu- 
man distress  and  fear.  "Alas,"  he  thought,  "what  atoms 
we  are;  and  what  an  atom  is  this  earth  itself!  It  would 
seem  that  faith  is  the  simplest,  yet  mightiest  effort  of  the 
mind  at  such  a  time,"  and  he  paused  till  Aun'  Sheba  should 
be  more  free  to  listen  to  him. 

Mr.  Birdsall,  with  his  youngest  child  ia  his  arms,  had 
been  exhorting  those  of  his  people  near  him,  but  his  words 
had  been  of  little  effect  in  quieting  Sissy  and  Uncle  Sheba. 
The  latter  had  concluded  that  he  would  not  wait  till  the 
coming  winter  before  again"  'speriencin  'ligion,"  and  his 
uncouth  appeals  to  Heaven  were  but  the  abject  expression 
of  animal  fear.  Aun'  Sheba  had  lost  her  patience  with 
both  him  and  her  daughter,  and  was  expostulating  vigor- 
ously. "I'se  asham  on  you,  Sissy,"  she  said.  "Wot  good 
de  'ligion  you  'fess  do  you,  I'd  like  ter  know  ?  Ain't  Vilet 
in  Hebin?  Ain't  you  got  de  bes  husban  bawn  ?  Ain't  de 
Oder  chil'n  heah?  Now  ef  you'se  'ligion  any  good  'tall, 
be  quiet  an  tankful  dat  you  bettah  off  dan  hun'erds.  Unc, 
you  kin  pray  all  you  wants,  but  ef  you  specs  de  Lawd  ter 
listen  you'se  got  ter  pray  like  a  man  an  not  like  a  hog  dat 
wants  his  dinnah.  You'se  'sturbin  everybody  wuss  dan  you 
did  wen  you  got  sot  on.     I  won  hab  it  said  my  folks  made 


HOPE    TURNED    INTO    DREAD  381 

a  rumpus  in  dis  time  ob  trouble.     You'se  got  ter  min  me, 
Mr.  Buggone,  or  I'se  hab  you  took  out  de  squar." 

Uncle  Sheba  was  never  so  far  gone  in  his  fears  but  that 
he  shrunk  from  facing  anything  worse,  and  so  he  subsided 
into  low  uiarticulate  groans.  Sissy  was  not  so  tractable, 
for  her  weeping  was  largely  nervous  and  hysterical.  She 
had  an  afiectionate  emotional  nature,  but  was  far  from  being 
gifted  with  the  strength  of  mind  and  character  possessed  by 
her  mother  and  husband. 

"Aun'  Sheba,"  said  Clancy  kindly,  *'your  daughter 
needs  something  to  quiet  her  nerves.  I  will  bring  it  to 
her."  He  soon  returned  with  medicine  from  the  doctor, 
and  under  its  influence  the  bereaved  mother  became  calmer 
and  wept  softly  by  her  dead  child. 

Clancy  drew  Aun'  Sheba  a  little  apart  so  that  others 
could  not  hear,  even  if  any  were  disposed  to  listen  at  this 
time  of  intense  preoccupation.  "You  have  been  a  friend 
indeed  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  must  ask  another  proof  of 
your  good-will.  The  earthquake  has  brought  trouble 
enough,  but  I  fear  that  Mara  and  I  have  brought  greater 
trouble  upon  ourselves.  Probably  you've  seen  enough  to 
explain  what  I  mean." 

"I'se  seen  a  heap,  Marse  Clancy." 

"Well,  you  are  Mara's  old  nurse.  She  loves  and  trusts 
you.     She  is  engaged  to  Captain  Bodine." 

"She  ain't  mar'ed  to  'im." 

"She  feels  herself  bound,  and  has  said  that  if  I  was  a 
true  Southern  gentleman  I  would  not  interfere.  This  is 
bad  enough,  but  there's  worse  still.  I  thought  she  was  lost 
to  me — you  know  about  it,  I  reckon. ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  knows  now.  I  was  a  blin  ole  fool  an  tink  it  was 
wuckin'  so  hard  dat  made  her  po'ly." 

"Oh,  we  have  both  made  such  fatal  mistakes  I  I,  like  a 
fool,  when  I  believed  she  would  never  speak  to  me  again, 
entangled  myself  also.  Now,  Aun'  Sheba,  what  I  wish  is  that 
you  say  nothing  to  any  one  of  what  you  have  seen  and  heard. 
W  e' ve  got  to  do  what's  honorable  at  every  cost  to  ourselves.  '* 


382  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

*'Dus  wot's  hon'ble  mean  dat  Missy  Mara  got  ter  mar'y 
Marse  Bodine  an  you  de  limpsey-slimpsey  one  wot  say  you 
'sorted  her?" 

*' Nothing  else  seems  to  be  left  for  us." 

*" Pears  ter  me,  Marse  Clancy,  you  an  Missy  Mara  gittin 
orful  muxed  up  in  wot's  hon'ble.  I'se  only  got  wot  folks 
calls  hoss- sense,  but  it's  dead  agin  you  bofe.  Take  you 
now.  Fust  you  got  ter  tell  de  gal  lies,  den  lies  to  her  fader 
an  de  minister  wot  jines  you,  and  de  hull  worl.  Missy  Mara 
ud  hab  ter  lie  like  de  debil,  too,  an  you  bofe  go  on  lyin 
'miscuously.  Anyhow,  you'se  hab  ter  act  out  de  lies  ef 
you  didn't  say  'em.  'Ud  dat  be  hon'ble  wen  all  de  time 
you'se  yearnin  fer  each  oder?" 

*'0h,  Aun'  Sheba,  it's  hard  enough  without  such  words 
as  yours  I" 

"Ob  corse  it's  hard.  It  orter  be,  fer  it's  agin  de  Lawd 
an  natur.  Marse  Clancy,  took  keer  wot  you  do,  an  wot  you 
let  Missy  Mara  do.  My  'sperience  teach  me  a  heap,  S'pose 
I  doan'  know  de  dif'ence  'tween  Unc.  dar  an  a  man  like 
Kern?  I  was  young  an  foolish  onct,  an  mar'ed  Unc.  kase 
he  was  good  lookin  den,  an  mo'  kase  he  ax  me.  Well,  I'se 
made  de  bes  on  it,  an  I'se  gwine  ter  make  de  bes  on  it;  but 
if  de  yearth  crack  right  open  heah,  as  like  'nuff  'twill  'fo' 
mawnin,  I'd  jump  right  down  in  de  crack  'fo'  I'd  do  it  ober 
ag'in.  You'se  on  de  safe  side  ob  de  crack  yit,  so  be  keer- 
f ul.  I  knows  woman  folks  soon  as  I  claps  my  eyes  on  dem. 
Miss  Mara  quar  in  her  notions  'bout  de  Norf— she  was 
brung  up  to  'em — but  dere's  nuff  woman  in  my  honey  lam' 
to  make  a  tousan  ob  dis  yere  limpsey-slimpsey  one." 

Clancy  clinched  his  hands  in  mental  distress  as  he  listened 
to  the  hard  sense  and  unerring  judgment  of  the  sagacious 
old  woman. 

"I'm  in  terrible  perplexity,"  he  said,  "for  there  is  so 
much  truth  in  your  words.  How  can  I  escape  the  conse- 
quences of  my  own  acts  ?  Think  how  Miss  Ainsley  stood 
by  me  in  my  unconsciousness  I     When  I  revived — " 

"Dar  now,  Marse  Clancy,  you'se  been  fooled.    She  stood 


HOPE    TURNED    INTO    DREAD  383 

by  hersef.  De  fac  am,  she  didn't  stan  'tall,  but  run  like  a 
deer,  hollerin  fer  all  she's  wuth.  Wen  you  swoonded.  Missy 
Mara  cotch  you  in  her  arms.  I  eben  run  away,  an  lef  my 
honey  lam'  mysef,  but  I  come  back  sudden,  an  dar  she  was 
a  hoi'n  you  head  in  her  lap  right  uner  a  big  bildin  dat  ud  a 
squashed  her.  I  drag  you  pass  dat,  an  den  Marse  Bodine 
jes  ordered  me  an  Missy  to  go  to  de  squar.  He  spoke  stern 
an  strong  as  if  we  his  sogers.  An  Missy  Mara  look  'im  in  de 
eyes  an  say,  you— dat' s  you,  Marse  Clancy— may  be  dead, 
or  you  may  be  dyin,  an  dat  she  can't  leab  you  an  she  won 
leab  you.  She  got  de  grit  ob  true  lub,  an  dere'll  neber  be 
any  runin  away  in  her  heart.  Wot  you  an  Marse  Bodine 
gwine  ter  do  'bout  sich  lub  as  dat?  'Fo'  de  Lawd  my 
honey  lam'  die  ef  you  an  Marse  Bodine  'sist  on  bein  so 
orful  hon'ble.  She  ain't  one  dem  kin'  dat  takes  a  husban 
like  dey  takes  a  breakfas  kase  its  ready." 

Clancy  was  so  profoundly  moved  by  what  he  heard  that 
he  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion.  After  a  moment  he 
Haid:  ''You  have  been  true  and  faithful,  Aun'  Sheba. 
You  won't  be  sorry.  Please  do  as  1  have  asked."  And 
he  hastened  away. 

"Eeckon  I  put  a  spoke  in  dat  hon'ble  bizness,"  Aun' 
Sheba  soliloquized.  "Like  'nuff  I  put  another  in.  Doan 
cotch  me  hep'n  along  any  sich  foolishness.  I  gibs  no 
promise,  an  I'se  gwine  ter  make  my  honey  lam'  happy 
spite  hersef."  Then  she  took  one  of  her  grandchildren, 
and  soothed  it  to  sleep. 

The  slow  hours  dragged  wearily  on;  the  majority  of  the 
white  people  quieted  down  to  patient,  yet  fearful  waiting; 
crying  children,  one  after  another,  dropped  off  to  sleep; 
parents  and  friends  watched  over  them  and  one  another, 
conversing  in  low  tones  or  praying  silently  for  the  Divine 
mercy,  never  before  felt  to  be  so  essential.  The  negroes 
were  more  demonstrative,  and  their  loud  prayers  and  sing- 
ing of  hymns  continued  without  abatement  or  hindrance. 
The  expressions  of  some  were  so  extravagant  and  uncouth 
as  to  grate  harshly  on  all  natures  possessing  any  refinement; 


384  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

but  when  such  men  as  Mr.  Birdsall  exhorted  or  prayed, 
there  were  but  few  among  the  whites  who  did  not  listen 
reverently,  and  in  their  hearts  acknowledge  the  substantial 
truth  of  the  words  spoken  and  their  need  of  the  petitions 
ofiered. 

Clancy  went  back  to  his  watch.  Few  men  in  the  city 
were  more  troubled  and  perplexed  than  he,  for  he  had  not 
the  calmness  resulting  from  a  definite  purpose  as  was  true 
of  Bodine. 

Unmovedly  the  two  men  remained  at  their  posts  of  duty 
awaiting  the  day  or  what  might  happen  before  the  dawn. 
George  lay  down  beside  his  father,  and  soon  slept  from 
fatigue,  while  Mr.  Houghton,  now  so  softened  and  chast- 
ened, vowed  to  make  him  happy. 

Ella  watched  her  father  in  deep  solicitude,  feeling  vaguely 
that  his  trouble  was  not  caused  wholly  by  the  general  rea- 
sons for  distress.  At  last  she  stole  to  his  side,  and  laid  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder.  The  act  comforted  and  sustained 
him  more  than  she  knew  at  the  time,  for  he  was  not  a  de- 
monstrative man.  He  only  kissed  her  tenderly  and  bade  her 
return  to  her  cousin,  with  whom  she  kept  up  a  whispered 
and  fragmentary  conversation.  Mrs.  Willoughby  sat  beside 
her  husband,  her  head  pillowed  against  his  breast  as  they 
waited  for  the  day. 

A  breeze  sprang  up,  and  the  freshness  of  the  morning 
was  in  it.  Would  the  sun  ever  rise  again  ?  Was  not  Na- 
ture so  out  of  joint  that  nothing  familiar  could  be  looked 
for  any  more  ?  The  terrors  of  the  long  night  inspired  mor- 
bid thoughts,  which  come  too  readily  in  darkness. 

At  the  appointed  time,  however,  there  was  a  glow  in  the 
east,  which  steadily  deepened  in  color.  Truly,  to  the  weary, 
haggard,  shivering,  half-clad  watchers,  the  sun  was  an  angel 
of  light  that  morning;  and  never  did  fire-worshippers  greet 
his  rise  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  gratitude  and  gladness. 

There  was  a  general  stir  in  the  strange  bivouac,  an  in- 
creased murmur  of  voices.  The  hymns  of  the  negroes  grad- 
ually ceased;  and  people,   singly  or  in  groups,   began  to 


HOPE    TURNED    INTO   DREAD  B85 

leave  the  square  for  their  homes,  in  order  to  clothe  them- 
selves more  fully,  and  to  discover  what  was  left  to  them  in 
the  general  wreck. 

There  had  been  no  shock  since  the  convulsion  at  half- 
past  two  o'clock,  the  fact  inspiring  general  confidence  that 
the  worst  was  over.  Hope  grew  stronger  with  the  blessed 
light,  and  fear  vanished  with  the  darkness. 

Mr.  Houghton  touched  his  son,  who  immediately  awoke, 
meditating  deeds  of  hospiiality.  ''Father,"  he  said,  "our 
house  is  near.  Cannot  I,  with  the  aid  of  Jube  and  Sam, 
get  our  friends  some  breakfast?" 

"Yes,  George,  and  extend  the  invitation  from  me." 

"Oh,  father!  I'm  so  grateful  that  you  are  giving  me  this 

chance  to — to — " 

"You  shall  have  all  the  chance  you  wish.  In  fact,  I'm 
rather  inclined  to  see  what  I  can  do  myself.  I  may  need  a 
good  deal  of  nursing."  And  the  old  man's  face  was  lighted 
up  with  a  kindly  smile,  which  made  his  son  positively  happy. 
Approaching  Bodine,  he  asked,  "Do  you  think  it  will  be 
safe  for  the  invalids  to  leave  the  square  ?" 

"I  scarcely  think  so,"  was  the  reply.  "At  least,  not 
until  more  time  passes  without  disturbance.  From  what 
I've  read  of  earthquakes,  our  houses  may  be  unsafe  for 
days  to  come." 

"Well,  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  see  that  you  all 
have  some  breakfast.  Fortunately,  our  house  is  not  far; 
and,  although  our  women-servants  have  fled,  I  have  two 
men  who  will  stand  by  me.  The  fact  is,  my  hunting  expe- 
ditions have  made  me  a  fairly  good  cook  myself.  My  father 
cordially  extends  the  invitation  that  all  my  friends  here 
breakfast  with  us." 

''I  will  join  in  your  labors,  Houghton,"  said  Clancy, 
promptly.  "Having  no  home,  I  gratefully  accept  your 
father's  invitation." 

"We're  all  shipwrecked  on  a  desert  island,"  added  Mrs. 
Bodine  cheerily  to  George.  "You  appear  to  be  one  of  the 
friendly  natives,  and  I  put  myself  under  your  protection." 

Q— Roe— XV 


386  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Our  custom  here  is,"  replied  the  young  fellow  in  like 
vein,  "that,  after  we  have  taken  salt  together,  we  become 
fast  friends." 

"Bring  on  the  salt,  then,"  she  answered  laughing,  while 
Ella's  smile  seemed  to  the  young  fellow  more  vivifying  than 
the  first  level  rays  of  the  sun.  Mara,  Mrs.  Hunter,  and 
Miss  Ainsley  were  still  sleeping,  as  also  was  Dr.  Devoe. 

"Houghton,"  called  Mr.  Willoughby,  "won't  you  enroll 
me  as  one  of  your  cooks  or  waiters  ?' ' 

"No,"  replied  George,  "1  must  leave  you  and  Captain 
Bodine  in  charge  of  camp." 

"Too  many  cooks  spile  de  brof,"  said  Aun'  Sheba,  rising 
from  Mara's  side  where  she  had  been  watching  for  the  last 
hour.  "Marse  Houghton,  you  bery  fine  cook  fer  de  woods, 
I  spec,  but  I  reckon  I  kin  gib  a  lil  extra  tech  to  de  doin's." 

"Ah,  Ann'  Sheba,  if  you'll  come,  you  shall  be  chief 
cook,  and  I,  for  one,  promise  to  obey.  Mrs.  Willoughby, 
I'm  so  very  glad  that  I  can  now  return  a  little  of  your 
kindness." 

"I  take  back  what  1  said  about  absolving  you,"  she 
whispered. 

"You'd  better.  If  I  don't  make  the  most  of  my  chance 
now  my  name  is  not  George  Houghton.  Of  course  I  shan't 
say  anything  while  these  troubles  last.  You  understand,  I 
don't  wish  anything  to  happen  which  would  embarrass  her, 
or  make  it  hard  to  accept  what  I  can  do  for  her  and  hers; 
but  when  the  right  time  comes,"  and  he  nodded  significantly 

"You  are  on  the  right  tack  as  you  boatmen  say,"  she 
whispered  laughing. 

"See  here,  Houghton,"  remarked  jolly  Mr.  Willoughby, 
"earthquakes  and  secret  conferences  with  my  wife  are  more 
than  a  fellow  can  stand  at  one  and  the  same  time." 

"You  shall  soon  have  consolation,"  said  George,  hasten- 
ing away,  followed  by  Clancy,  Aun'  Sheba,  Jube,  and  Sam. 
When  the  last-named  worthy  appeared  near  Mr.  Houghton's 
barn  the  horses  whinnied  and  the  two  dogs  barked  joyously. 
"Mr.  Clancy,"   said  George,   handing   him  his  pocket- 


HOPE    TURNED    INTO    DREAD  387 

book,  ''since  you  have  kindly  ofiered  to  aid,  please  take 
Jube  and  visit  the  nearest  butcher's  shop  and  bakery.  I 
suggest  that  you  lay  in  a  large  supply,  for  we  don't  know 
what  may  happen.  Please  get  eggs,  canned  delicacies,  any- 
thing you  think  best.  Don't  spare  money.  Help  yourself, 
if  owners  are  absent.     I  will  honor  all  your  I.  0.  U's." 

''AH  right,  Houghton;  but  remember  that  I'm  an  active 
partner  in  this  catering  business.  Fortunately  I  don't  need 
to  go  to  the  bank  for  money. ' ' 

Aun'  Sheba  exclaimed  over  the  evidences  of  disaster 
along  the  street,  but  when  she  saw  what  a  wreck  Mr. 
Houghton's  massive  portico  had  become  she  lifted  her 
hands  in  dismay. 

"That  don't  trouble  me,"  said  George,  *'since  I'm  not 
under  it.     I  passed  beneath  a  second  or  two  before  it  fell." 

"De  Lawd  be  praised!  'Pears  ter  me  He  know  wot  He 
'bout,  an  is  gwine  ter  bring  down  pride  ez  well  ez  piazzers." 

"It  looks  that  way,  Aun'  Sheba.  Here,  Sam,  make  the 
kitchen  fire  before  you  do  anything  else.  Now  we  must 
rummage  and  see  what  we  can  find." 

Aun'  Sheba  took  possession  of  the  kitchen,  and  with 
broom,  mop,  and  cloths,  soon  brought  order  out  of  chaos. 
Sam  found  that  although  the  chimney  had  lost  its  top,  it 
fortunately  drew,  and  the  fire  in  the  range  speedily  proved 
all  that  could  be  desired.  George  ravaged  the  store-closet 
until  Aun'  Sheba  said, ' '  Nu£E  heah  already  ter  feed  de  squar. ' ' 

Then  he  went  up  and  looked  about  the  poor  wrecked 
home,  meanwhile  setting  Sam  to  dusting  chairs  and  carry- 
ing them  to  the  square.  Then  a  table,  crockery,  knives, 
forks,  spoons,  napkins,  etc.,  were  despatched. 

Clancy  and  Jube  found  that  the  proprietors  of  some  of 
the  shops  were  plucking  up  courage  to  enter  them  and  re- 
sume trade,  and  so  they  eventually  returned  well  laden  with 
provisions.  Then  Jube  was  sent  with  wash-basins,  water  and 
towels  for  ablutions.  Meantime  George  and  Clancy  took  a 
hasty  bath  and  exchanged  their  ruined  clothing  for  clean 
apparel. 


688  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Houghton,  you  are  a  godsend  to  us  all,"  exclaimed  his 
friend. 

*'I  suppose  the  whole  affair  is  a  godsend,"  was  the  re- 
ply; "anyway,  I'm  getting  my  satisfaction  out  of  it  this 
morning. ' ' 

As  sprightly  Mrs.  Willoughby  saw  the  applicances  for 
their  comfort  following  one  after  another  she  said  to  Ella, 
"We  may  as  well  make  believe  that  it  is  a  picnic." 

Ella  smiled  and  replied,  "I'm  better  dressed  for  break- 
fast than  you  are,  for  I  have  on  a  wrapper,  and  you  are  m 
a  low-necked  evening  costume." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  eat  a  breakfast  all  the  same.  What 
creatures  these  mortals  be!  A  little  while  ago  I  was  in  the 
depths  of  misery,  and  now  I'm  hungry  and  kind  of  happy." 

"Oh,  you  are,"  said  her  husband,  "when  you  may  have 
to  take  in  washing  for  a  living,  while  I  shovel  brick  and 
mortar. ' ' 

"No,  indeed,"  cried  his  wife,  "I'll  join  the  firm  of  Wal- 
lingford  and  Bodine,  and  you  can  help  Aun'  Sheba  peddle 
cakes. ' ' 

"That's  right,  children,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine,  "that's  the 
true  brave  Southern  spirit.  We  are  all  born  soldiers,  sea- 
men rather,  since  the  land  has  been  as  freakish  as  the 
waves.  Now  mind,  I'll  send  the  first  one  below  who 
shows  the  white  feather." 

Mr.  Houghton  lay  apart  from  this  group;  and,  while  he 
felt  his  isolation,  knew  that  he  was  to  blame  for  it.  They 
also  felt  the  awkwardness  of  their  situation,  not  knowing 
how  far  he  was  willing  or  able  to  converse  with  them.  Mr. 
Willoughby  was  about  to  break  the  ice,  but  Ella  forestalled 
him.  "Mr.  Houghton,"  she  said,  timidly  approaching,  "is 
there  anything  we  can  do  for  you  ?    We  are  all  so  grateful. " 

"Yes,  Miss  Bodine.     Forget  and  forgive." 

"There  seems  very  little  now  to  forgive,  and  we  do  not 
wish  to  forget  your  kindness. ' ' 

"Good Lor!"  whispered  Mrs.  Bodine  to  Mrs. Willoughby, 
*'I  couldn't  have  turned  a  neater  sentence  myself." 


BOPE    TURNED   INTO   DREAD 


889 


•»Well,  Miss  Bodine,"  resumed  Mr.  Houghton,  "I  sup- 
pose  we  shall  have  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Now  that 
sunshine  and  brightness  have  come,  we  should  not  recall 
anything  painful.  1  trust  that  the  worst  is  over,  but  our 
courage  may  yet  be  sorely  tried.  I  will  esteem  it  a  very 
great  favor  if  you  and  your  friends  will  accept  without  re- 
luctance  what  my  son  can  do  for  your  comfort." 

Ella  could  not  repress  a  little  laugh  of  pleasure  as  she 
replied  *^It  is  too  late  now  to  afiect  any  reluctance.  We 
owe  him  so  much  that  we  might  as  well  owe  him  more." 
Then,  ever  practical,  she  arranged  a  screen  to  shade  his  face 

from  the  sun's  rays.  .  •     /ii„ 

Mr  Willoughby  now  came  up  and  spoke  in  a  friendly 
way  of*  the  probable  effects  of  the  disaster  upon  the  city,  and 
so  the  touch  of  mutual  kindness  began  to  make  them  km. 

Mrs  Hunter  commenced  to  moan  and  toss,  and  this  awak- 
ened  Miss  Ainsley,  who  looked  around  wonderingly.  Mrs 
Willoughby  in  low  tones  recalled  what  had  happened,  and 
explained  the  present  aspect  of  afiairs.  Mrs.  Bodme  per- 
formed  the  same  office  for  Mara,  who  also  had  been  aroused 
by  the  voices  near.  The  girl's  habit  of  self-control  served 
her  in  -ood  stead,  and  she  immediately  rose,  gave  her  hand 
to  Bodine  in  greeting,  and  then  knelt  beside  her  aunt.  See- 
ing Mara  so  near,  Miss  Ainsley  quickly  rose  also,  ana  moved 
away  in  instinctive  antipathy.  -n      ci, 

Mrs  Hunter  was  feverish  and  evidently  very  ill.  ^he 
was  unable  to  comprehend  what  was  taking  place,  but  rec- 
ognized  Mara,  whose  soothing  touch  and  words  alone  had 

the  power  of  quieting  her.  ,  ,       :,  -,        x^^^A 

Ella  bathed  Mrs.  Bodine's  face  and  hands,  and  enabled 

her  to  make  "the  ghost  of  a  toilet,"  as  the  old  lady  said. 

Then  Ella  whispered,  "I  wish  I  could  do  as  much  for  Mr. 

Houghton."  .  .  ,  .  .ir  1 

"I  dare  you  to  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bodme,  with  a  mirthful 

gleam  in  her  eyes.  ,      .      •  i.u     „v. 

Ella  caught  her  spirit,  and  without  hesitation,  although 

blushin-  like  a  rose,  went  to  Mr.  Houghton,  and  asked, 


S90  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Will   you    please    let   me    bathe    your    hands    and    face 
also?" 

"Why,  Miss  Bodine,  I  should  not  expect  such  kindness 
from  you.     I  can  wait  till  my  son  returns." 

"He  is  doing  so  much  that  he  will  be  tired.  It  would 
give  me  pleasure  if  you  will  permit  it.  In  waiting  on  my 
cousin  I've  learned  to  be  not  a  very  awkward  nurse." 

"Well,  Miss  Bodine,  I  am  learning  that  even  earth- 
quakes can  bring  pleasant  compensations.  You  shall  have 
your  own  way.  Yes,  you  are  a  good  nurse,  and  a  brave  and 
patient  one.  Your  kindness  to  that  poor  creature  who  died 
in  your  arms  touched  my  heart. ' ' 

"And  mine  too,  Mr.  Houghton.  She  told  me  a  very 
pitiful  story." 

"You  shall  tell  it  to  me  some  time,  my  dear." 

Her  heart  thrilled  as  he  gently  spoke  these  words,  while 
George,  striding  up  with  a  great  platter  of  steak,  almost 
dropped  it  as  he  saw  the  girl  waiting  on  his  father  as  if 
filial  relations  were  already  established.  The  old  man  en- 
joyed his  look  of  pleased  wonder,  and,  when  he  had  a 
chance,  whispered,  "I'm  getting  ahead  of  you,  my  boy,  I 
don't  want  your  clumsy  hands  or  Jube's  around  me  any 
more."  Mrs.  Bodine  put  her  head  under  the  blanket  and 
shook  with  silent  laughter. 

Ella  was  very  shy  of  the  young  man,  however.  He 
could  not  catch  her  eye,  nor  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  her 
except  in  the  presence  of  her  father,  Mrs.  Bodine,  or  some 
one  else.  But  he  possessed  his  soul  in  patience,  and  did 
his  best  to  be  a  genial  host.  Clancy,  Jube,  and  Sam  fol- 
lowed with  the  coffee  and  various  comestibles.  Miss  Ains- 
ley  was  a  little  effusive  in  her  greeting  of  the  man  whom 
she  had  deserted  in  the  street,  and  again  had  left  to  pass  the. 
night  as  he  could,  while  she  sought  obliv^ion.  His  response 
was  grave,  kind,  yet  not  altogether  reassuring.  He  cer- 
tainly indulged  in  no  lover-like  glances;  and  he  went  di- 
rect to  Mara,  and  inquired  gently  after  Mrs.  Hunter.  She 
replied  quietly,  without  looking  up.     It  was  evident  that 


HOPE    TURNED    INTO    DREAD  891 

the  sound  of  his  voice  distressed  the  injured  woman,  who 
was  barely  conscious  enough  to  have  vague  memories  of 
the  past. 

Weary  Dr.  Devoe  was  wakened,  while  George  gave  Mrs. 
Willoughby  his  arm,  and  gallantly  placed  her  behind  the 
cofiee-urn.  Even  Captain  Bodine  assumed  a  measure  of 
cheerfulness  during  breakfast.  When  newsboys  came  gal- 
loping up  with  the  morning  paper,  Mr.  Willoughby  rose 
and  waved  his  hat,  joining  in  the  general  hurrah  which 
rose  from  all  parts  of  the  square.  Every  one  warmly  ap- 
preciated the  heroism  displayed  in  gathering  news  and 
printing  a  journal  during  the  past  night.  Next  to  the 
vivifying  light  and  the  apparent  cessation  of  the  shocks, 
nothing  did  more  to  restore  confidence  than  the  appearance 
of  the  familiar  paper. 

"Old  Charleston  is  alive  yet,"  cried  Mr.  Willoughby; 
"and  if  the  rest  of  us  have  half  the  pluck  shown  in  that 
printing-house,  we'll  soon  restore  everything." 

"Give  me  a  paper,"  said  Mrs.  Bodine.  "I'd  rather  have 
it  than  my  breakfast." 

"You  shall  have  both,"  replied  Ella,  bringing  a  little 
tray  to  her  side. 

"Ah,  Cousin  Hugh,  you  veterans  never  did  anything 
braver.     Own  up." 

"I  do,  most  sincerely  and  heartily." 
Clancy  read  the  journal  aloud;  and  the  coffee  grew  cold 
as  all  listened  breathlessly  to  a  chapter  in  the  city's  history 
never  to  be  forgotten.  Mr.  Houghton  was  so  absorbed  that 
he  suddenly  became  conscious  that  Ella  was  beside  him  with 
the  daintiest  of  breakfasts.  "You  are  spoiling  me  for  any 
other  nurse,"  he  said. 

"It  is  a  relief  at  such  a  time  to  care  for  those  who  are  ill 
and  feeble,"  she  replied  gently.     "If  we  have  to  stay  here,  - 
I  hope  you  will  let  me  wait  on  you;  but  I  trust  that  we  can 
all  soon  go  to  our  homes." 

"I  have  my  doubts.     Now  give  me  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  make  a  good  meal. " 


392  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

"Mr.  Clancy,"  cried  Mrs.  Willoughby,  "in  the  general 
chaos  women  may  obtain  their  just  pre-eminence.  1  shall 
take  the  lead  by  ordering  you  to  lay  down  that  paper,  so 
that  yon  and  others  may  have  a  hot  breakfast." 

Mara  could  be  induced  to  take  nothing  beyond  a  cup  of 
coffee.  In  spite  of  the  sunshine  and  the  general  reaction 
into  hopefulness  and  courage,  she  felt  that  black  chaos  was 
coming  into  her  life.  Her  aunt  and  natural  protector  was 
very  ill.  After  the  events  of  the  night  she  shrank  inex- 
pressibly from  her  former  relations  to  Bodine.  Indeed,  it 
seemed  impossible  to  continue  them.  Yet  she  asked  her- 
self again  and  again,  "What  else  is  there  for  me?"  He 
was  very  kind,  but  the  expression  of  his  face  was  inscru- 
table. Moreover,  there  was  Miss  Ainsley  acting  as  if  Clancy 
were  her  own  natural  property,  and  he  unable  to  dispute  her 
claims.  It  appeared  to  her  that  poor  stricken  Mrs.  Hunter 
was  her  only  refuge,  and  she  resolved  to  remain  close  by 
the  invalid's  side. 

With  the  coming  of  the  day  Uncle  Sheba's  most  poig- 
nant fears  had  gradually  subsided.  He  kept  his  eyes  on 
his  wife,  feeling  that  any  good  that  he  might  hope  for  in 
this  world  would  come  through  her.  Indeed  the  impres- 
sion was  growing  that  the  greatest  immediate  good  to  be 
obtained  from  any  world  was  a  breakfast;  and  when  Aun' 
Sheba  went  with  George  to  his  home,  Unc.  also  followed  at 
a  discreet  distance.  The  result  was  that  his  wife  again  had 
to  put  him  on  a  "  'lowance,"  or  little  would  have  been  left 
in  Mr.  Houghton's  kitchen.  He  surreptitiously  stuffed  a 
few  eatables  into  his  pocket,  and  then  went  out  to  smoke 
his  pipe. 

Breakfast  was  at  last  over  at  the  square.  Mr.  Wil- 
loughly  rose  and  said  to  his  wife,  "I  will  go  to  the  house, 
and  get  more  suitable  costumes  for  you  and  Carrie.  Hough- 
ton will  loan  you  a  dressing-room  at  his  house,  for  the  streets 
can  be  scarcely  suitable  for  you  to  traverse  yet.  I'll  bring 
a  carriage  for  you,  however,  as  soon  as  it  is  possible.  Seri- 
ous danger  is  now  over,  I  hope.'' 


HOPE    TURNED    INTO    DREAD  393 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when,  as  if  in  mock- 
ery, far  in  the  southeast  was  heard  again  the  sound  which 
appalled  the  stoutest  hearts.  On  it  came,  as  if  a  lightning 
express-train  were  thundering  down  upon  them.  They  saw 
the  tops  of  distant  trees  nod  and  sway  as  if  agitated  by  a 
gale;  men,  women,  and  children  rushing  again,  with  loud 
cries,  from  their  homes;  then  it  seemed  as  if  some  subter- 
ranean monster  was  tearing  its  way  through  the  earth. 

The  moment  the  paralysis  of  terror  passed.  Miss  Ainsley 
threw  herself  shrieking  upon  Clancy,  who  was  compelled  to 
support  and  soothe  her.  Mara  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  trembled  violently,  but  uttered  no  soand.  Ella 
could  not  repress  a  cry,  as  she  hid  her  face  upon  her 
father's  breast,  a  cry  echoed  by  Mrs.  Willoughby  as  she 
and  her  husband  clung  together.  George  knelt,  holding 
the  hand  of  his  father,  who  looked  at  his  son  with  the  feel- 
ing that,  if  the  end  had  come,  his  boy  should  be  the  last  ob- 
ject on  which  his  eyes  rested.  Mrs.  Bodine  was  as  composed 
as  the  veteran  himself,  and  simply  looked  heavenward. 
There  was  something  so  terrific  in  the  immeasurable  power 
of  the  convulsion,  so  suggestive  of  immediate  and  awful 
death,  that  few  indeed  could  maintain  any  degree  of  for- 
titude. 

There  was  one,  however,  a  few  rods  away,  who  scarcely 
noticed  the  shock.  Kern  Watson,  at  last  released  from 
duty,  sat  on  the  ground,  with  his  face  buried  in  the  neck 
of  his  dead  child.  He  did  not  raise  his  head,  and  trembled 
only  as  the  quivering  earth  agitated  his  form. 


894  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 


CHAPTER  XLV 

A     CITY      ENCAMPING 

THE  earthquake  which  occurred  at  8.25  Wednesday 
morning  had  a  disastrous  effect,  although  it  was  not 
so  severe  as  to  injure  materially  the  buildings  al- 
ready so  shattered.  It  nipped  hope  and  growing  confidence 
in  the  bud.  Multitudes  had  left  the  square  for  their  homes, 
a  large  proportion  with  the  immediate  purpose  of  obtain- 
ing more  clothing.  Many  would  have  been  comparatively 
naked  were  it  not  for  enveloping  blankets  and  the  loan  of 
articles  of  apparel  from  the  more  fortunate.  With  the  con- 
fidence which  the  morning  and  the  continued  quiet  of  the 
earth  inspired  there  had  been  a  general  movement  from 
the  square.  Some  hastily  dressed  themselves,  snatched  up 
bedding  and  food,  and  returned  to  the  open  spaces  immedi- 
ately; others  breakfasted  at  home,  and  some  had  the  heart 
to  begin  the  task  of  putting  their  houses  in  order.  The 
shock  drove  them  forth  again  with  all  their  fears  renewed 
and  increased,  for  the  homes,  which  in  many  cases  had  been 
a  refuge  for  generations,  were  now  looked  upon  as  death- 
traps, threatening  to  mangle  and  torture  as  well  as  destroy. 
The  love  of  gain,  the  instinct  to  preserve  property,  was 
also  obliterated.  Merchants  deserted  their  shops  and  ware- 
houses. Banks  were  unopened,  except  for  the  gaps  rent  by 
the  earthquake.  The  city  was  full  of  food,  yet  people  went 
hungry,  not  daring  to  enter  the  places  where  it  was  stored. 
After  a  second  and  general  flight  to  the  square,  the  ques- 
tion in  all  hearts,  ''What  next?"  paralyzed  with  its  dread 
suggestion. 


A    CITY    ENCAMPING  895 

The  fear  among  the  educated  had  become  definite  and 
rational.  JSot  that  they  could  explain  the  earthquake  or  its 
causes,  but  the  sad  experiences  of  other  regions  were  known 
to  them.  These  experiences,  however,  had  varied  so  greatly 
in  their  horrors  as  to  leave  a  wide  margin  of  terrible  pos- 
sibilities. A  tidal  wave  might  roJl  in,  for  the  city  was 
scarcely  more  than  nine  feet  above  the  sea.  The  earth 
might  open  in  great  and  ingulfing  fissures.  The  tremen- 
dous forces  beneath  them  might  seek  a  volcanic  outlet. 
These  were  all  dire  thoughts,  and  were  brought  home  to 
the  consciousness  the  more  vividly  because  the  awful 
phenomena  continued  in  the  serene  light  of  day.  The 
nightmare  aspect  of  what  had  occurred  in  darkness  passed 
away,  and  the  coolest  and  most  learned  found  themselves 
confronted  by  dangers  which  they  could  not  gauge  or  ex- 
plain. Nor  could  the  end  be  foreseen.  If  such  considera- 
tions weighed  down  the  spirits  of  the  most  intelligent  men, 
imagine  the  fears  of  frail,  nervous  women,  of  the  children, 
the  wild  panic  of  the  superstitious  negroes  to  whom  science 
explained  nothing.  To  their  excited  minds  the  earthquake 
was  due  directly  either  to  the  action  of  a  malignant,  per- 
sonal devil,  or  of  an  angry  God.  While  many  of  the  poor 
Ignorant  creatures  inevitably  indulged  in  what  were  justly 
termed  "religious  orgies,"  the  great  majority  were  well  be- 
haved and  patient,  finding  in  their  simple  faith  unspeakable 
comfort  and  support. 

One  fact,  however,  was  clear  to  all:  that  the  place  of 
immediate  and  greatest  danger  was  near  or  beneath  any- 
thing which  might  be  prostrated  by  the  recurring  shocks. 

Another  feature  in  Wednesday's  experience  was  very 
depressing.  The  city  was  completely  isolated  from  the  rest 
of  the  world.  All  telegraph-wires  were  down,  all  railroads 
leading  into  the  city  had  been  rendered  impassable.  For 
many  hours  those  without  who  had  friends  and  relatives  in 
Charleston  were  kept  in  dreadful  suspense.  From  adjacent 
cities  reports  of  the  catastrophe  were  flashed  continuously, 
but  in  regard  to  Charleston  there  was  an  ominous  lack  of 


396  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

information,  and  the  fear  was  very  general  that  the  city  by 
the  sea  had  sunk  beneath  the  waves. 

Mr.  Ainsley  shared  in  this  horrible  dread.  He  tele- 
graphed repeatedly  from  an  inland  town,  and  took  the  first 
train  despatched  toward  the  city.  His  daughter  was  right 
in  believing  that  he  would  reach  her  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment. 

She  was  greatly  demoralized  by  the  shock  which  dissi- 
pated her  impression  of  comparative  safety ;  and  when  she 
realized  that  the  city  was  utterly  cut  off  from  the  outside 
world,  that  it  was  impossible  to  know  when  her  father  could 
arrive,  she  gave  way  to  selfish  fear  and  the  deepest  de- 
jection. With  embarrassing  pertinacity  she  insisted  that 
Clancy  should  remain  near  her.  Even  to  the  others  it  was 
apparent  that  fear,  rather  than  afiection,  led  her  to  desire 
his  presence  so  earnestly.  He  had  once  wondered  what 
kind  of  a  woman  was  masked  by  her  culture  and  a  reserve 
so  perfect  that  it  had  seemed  frankness.  The  veneer  now 
was  stripped  off.  After  her  own  fashion,  she  was  almost  as 
abject  in  her  terror  as  Uncle  Sheba,  who  had  run  howling 
back  to  the  square,  leaving  the  wife  who  had  fed  him  to  her 
fate.  In  her  lack  of  honest  sympathy  for  others,  and  indis- 
position to  exert  herself  in  their  behalf.  Miss  Ainsley  quite 
equalled  the  selfish  old  negro.  The  conventional  world  in 
which  she  had  shone  to  such  advantage  had  passed  away. 
Her  very  perfection  in  form  and  feature  made  defects  in 
character  more  glaring,  for  she  was  seen  to  be  a  fair  yet 
broken  promise. 

How  sweetly  the  noble  qualities  of  Ella  and  Mara  were 
revealed  by  comparison!  They  had  been  taught  in  the 
school  of  adversity.  From  childhood  they  had  learned  to 
think  of  others  first  rather  than  of  themselves.  Miss  Ains- 
ley would  have  been  resplendent  and  at  ease  in  a  royal 
drawing-room;  these  two  girls  maintained  womanly  forti- 
tude and  gave  themselves  up  to  unselfish  devotion  in  the 
presence  of  a  mysterious  power  which  would  level  an  em- 
peror's palace  as  readily  as  a  negro's  cabin. 


A    CITY   ENCAMPING  397 

Clancy  saw  the  difference — no  one  more  clearly — and  his 
very  soul  recoiled  from  the  woman  he  had  purposed  to 
marry.  He  patiently  bore  with  her  as  long  as  he  could 
after  the  shock,  and  then  joined  Mr.  Willoughby,  George, 
Bodine,  and  Dr.  Devoe,  who  were  consulting  at  Mr.  Hough- 
ton's bedside.  In  his  shame  and  distress  he  did  not  venture 
even  to  glance  at  Mara. 

As  the  stress  of  the  emergency  increased  Mr.  Houghton's 
mind  had  grown  clear  and  decided;  his  old  resolute,  busi- 
ness habits  asserted  themselves,  and  from  his  low  couch  he 
practically  became  the  leader  in  their  council.  "From  what 
we  know  of  other  and  like  disturbances,"  he  said,  "it  is  im- 
possible to  foresee  when  these  shocks  will  end,  or  how  soon 
a  refuge  can  be  sought  in  regions  exempt  from  our  dangers. 
Now  that  I  am  established  in  this  square  near  my  home  I 
intend  to  remain  here  for  the  present.  1  cordially  ask  you 
ail  to  share  my  fortunes.  My  son  will  spare  no  expense  or 
effort,  that  can  be  made  in  safety,  for  our  general  comfort.'* 
Then  he  added  before  them  all,  "Captain  Bodine,  1  have 
done  you  much  wrong  and  discourtesy.  I  apologize.  You 
have  invalid  and  injured  ladies  in  your  charge.  Their 
claims  are  sacred  and  imperative.  I  will  esteem  it  a  favor 
if  you  will  permit  my  son  to  do  what  he  can  for  their  com- 
fort and  protection." 

Bodine  at  once  came  forward,  and  giving  Mr.  Houghton 
his  hand,  replied,  "You  and  your  son  are  teaching  me  that 
1  have  done  you  both  much  greater  wrong.  1  think  I  shall 
have  to  surrender  as  I  did  once  before,  but  I  am  glad  that 
it  is  to  kindness  rather  than  to  force  in  this  instance.'* 

"Here's  the  true  remedy  for  our  differences,'*  cried  Mr. 
V/illoughby.  "Let  the  North  and  South  get  acquainted, 
and  all  will  be  well.  But  come,  we  must  act,  and  act 
promptly.'* 

"Yes,"  replied  George,  "for  the  square  is  filling  up 
again,  and  we  should  keep  as  much  space  here  as  possible. 
I  have  a  small  tent  which  I  will  put  up  at  once  for  Mrs. 
Bodine  and  Mrs.  Hunter.     Then  I'll  rig  an  awning  for  my 


398  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

father,  and  help  the  rest  of  you  in  whatever  you  decide 
upon." 

'* George,"  said  his  father,  anxiously,  "let  your  visits  to 
the  house  be  as  brief  as  possible." 

Clancy  offered  to  assist  George  in  meeting  the  immedi- 
ate need  of  shelter  from  the  sun,  and  Dr.  Devoe  gave  the 
morning  to  the  care  of  his  many  patients.  Mr.  Willoughby 
said  that  he  must  first  go  to  his  home  for  clothing  and  to 
look  after  matters,  but  that  he  would  soon  return.  Bodine 
was  asked  to  mount  guard  and  prevent,  as  far  as  possible, 
the  fugitives  from  encroaching  on  the  needed  space.  This 
proved  no  easy  task.  Old  Tobe,  after  having  received  some 
breakfast,  maintained  his  watch  over  the  medical  stores, 
while  Ann'  Sheba,  who  had  followed  her  husband  as  fast 
as  her  limited  powers  of  travelling  permitted,  cleared  away 
the  remnants  of  the  breakfast  for  her  family,  George  assur- 
ing her  that  he  would  soon  make  all  comfortable  provision 
for  her  and  them. 

With  Clancy  and  the  two  colored  men  he  repaired  to  his 
home,  as  the  wrecked  venture  to  a  ship  which  may  break 
up  at  any  moment,  in  order  to  secure  what  was  absolutely 
essential.  A  tent  was  soon  pitched  for  the  invalids;  a  shel- 
ter of  quilts  suspended  over  and  around  his  father,  and  a 
large  carpet  jerked  from  the  floor  formed  an  awning  for  the 
ladies.  Part  of  this  awning  was  partitioned  off  so  as  to  give 
them  all  the  privacy  possible  under  the  circumstances,  and 
the  remainder  was  inclosed  on  three  sides,  but  left  open 
toward  the  east. 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  sent  to  the  hospital,"  said  Mrs. 
Bodine.  "I'd  rather  sit  up  and  direct  Ella  how  to  trans- 
form this  outer  habitation  into  a  drawing-room." 

Then  George  brought  her  and  his  father  easy-chairs. 
Bugs  were  spread  on  the  grass,  and  the  rude  shelter  became 
positively  inviting.  Ella  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  made  them- 
selves so  useful  that  at  last  Miss  Ainsley  so  far  recovered 
from  her  panic  as  to  assist.  She  detested  Mara,  and  Mrs. 
Hunter's  ghastly  face  and  white  hair  embodied  to  her  mind 


A    CITY   ENCAMPING  399 

the  terror  of  which  all  were  in  dread.  The  bright  sunshine 
and  homely  work  were  suggestive  of  rural  pleasures  rather 
than  of  dire  necessity,  and  helped,  for  the  time,  to  retire 
the  spectre  of  danger  to  the  background.  The  coming  and 
going  of  many  acquaintances  and  friends  also  helped  to 
rally  her  spirits,  and  incite  her  to  the  semblance  of  courage. 
Mrs.  Willoughby,  Mrs.  Bodine,  and  Mara  had  stanch  friends 
who  sought  them  out  the  moment  comparative  safety  had 
been  secured  for  their  nearer  dependants.  The  demands  of 
our  story  require  nothing  more  than  the  brief  statement  that 
there  was  a  general  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  people  to 
think  of  and  care  for  all  who  had  claims  upon  them.  Even 
in  the  dreadful  hours  immediately  following  the  first  shock, 
much  unselfish  heroism  was  displayed ;  and  during  the  weary 
days  and  nights  which  followed,  men  and  women  vied  with 
each  other  in  their  attentions  to  those  who  most  needed  care. 

Mrs.  Bodine,  Mrs.  Willoughby,  and  the  captain  had  sev- 
eral whispered  conferences  with  those  who  felt  surprise  at 
associations  with  Mr.  Houghton,  and  there  was  a  quick, 
generous  response  to  the  old  man's  kindness.  Some  who 
would  not  have  looked  at  him  the  day  before  now  went  and 
spoke  to  him  gratefully  and  sympathetically,  while  for 
George  only  cordiality  and  admiration  were  manifested. 
He  was  not  a  little  uneasy  over  the  profuse  attentions  and 
offers  of  help  which  Ella  received  from  several  young  men. 
To  his  jealous  eyes  she  appeared  unnecessarily  gracious, 
and  more  ready  to  talk  with  them  than  with  him;  but  he 
could  not  discover  that  she  had  an  especial  favorite  among 
them.  Indeed,  she  managed  in  their  case  as  in  his  that  Mrs. 
Willoughby,  Miss  Ainsley,  or  some  one  else  should  share 
in  the  conversation. 

At  last  Bodine  said  to  George,  '*!  will  now  go  to  Mrs. 
Hunter's  rooms  and  to  Mrs.  Bodine's  residence,  and  obtain 
what  is  most  essential.  Can  you  spare  one  of  your  servants 
to  carry  what  I  cannot?" 

"Certainly,  and  I  will  go  with  you  myself.  Clancy  and 
Sam  can  continue  operations  here. ' ' 


400  THE   EARTH    TkEMBLED 

"George,"  said  his  father,  "as  soon  as  the  absolute  neces- 
sity for  entering  buildings  is  over,  1  wish  you  to  keep  away 
from  them." 

"Yes,  father." 

Ella  added,  "Remember,  Mr.  Houghton,  that  is  a  prom- 
ise. Please  let  the  words  'absolute  necessity'  have  their  full 
meaning;"  and  her  face  was  so  full  of  solicitude  that  he  said, 
"I  promise  you  also." 

With  a  smile  and  flush  she  turned  to  her  father  whisper- 
ing the  tenderest  cautions  and  emphasizing  the  truth  that 
but  few  things  were  essential,  some  of  which  she  mentioned. 
Jube  had  become  like  a  faithful  spaniel,  the  spirit  of  his 
young  master  reassuring  him  so  as  to  feel  his  only  safety 
lay  in  obedience. 

As  George  and  Bodine  went  down  the  street  they  were 
saddened  by  the  evidences  of  disaster  on  every  side.  Even 
Meeting  Street  was  still  so  obstructed  as  to  be  almost  im- 
passable for  vehicles,  and  in  some  places  the  ruins  were 
still  being  searched  for  the  dead.  When  they  reached  Mrs. 
Hunter's  home  Bodine  groaned  inwardly,  "How  the  poor 
girl  must  have  suffered!"  He  added  aloud,  "The  mental 
distress  caused  by  my  helplessness  during  the  last  few 
hours,  Mr.  Houghton,  has  been  much  harder  to  bear  than 
the  wound  which  cost  me  my  leg  and  the  suffering  which 
followed." 

"My  dear  captain, "  replied  George,  "your  courage  and 
clear  head  make  you  far  less  helpless  than  hundreds  who 
only  use  their  legs  to  run  with.  Let  me  enter  this  shell  of 
a  house  alone." 

"That  would  be  a  sad  commentary  on  your  remark. " 

They  speedily  obtained  what  they  deemed  essential,  and 
turned  off  the  gas,  which  was  still  burning.  It  was  evident 
that  no  one  had  entered  the  house  since  its  occupants  had 
left  it.  Mrs.  Bodine' s  residence  was  comparatively  unin- 
jured, and  when  leaving  it  the  captain  was  able  to  lock 
the  outer  door. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  square*  George  stammered: 


A    CITY   ENCAMPING  401 

"Captain  Bodine,  it  may  be  very  bad  taste  to  speak  of  such 
a  matter  now,  but  we  do  not  know  what  an  hour  will  bring 
forth.  I  would  like  to  have  some  understanding  with  you. 
Beyond  that  there  may  be  no  need  of  anything  further 
being  said  until  all  these  troubles  are  over.  I — I — well, 
can  I  venture  to  make  my  former  request  ?  Your  daughter 
has  my  happiness  wholly  m  her  hands.  I  do  not  intend  to 
embarrass  her  by  a  word  until  she  is  again  in  her  own 
home,  but  I  wish  to  know  that  my  hopes  and  efforts  to  win 
her  regard  have  your  sanction." 

''How  does  your  father  feel  about  this?"  Bodine  asked 
gravely. 

"He  has  given  his  full  and  cordial  approval.  Now  that 
he  has  seen  Miss  Bodine  she  has  won  him  completely." 

"Mr.  Houghton,  I  owe  to  you  her  life  which  I  value 
more  than  my  own.  You  know  we  are  lacking  in  every- 
thing except  pride  and  good  name." 

"My  dear  sir, "  interrupted  George  earnestly,  "God  has 
endowed  vour  dauojhter  as  man  could  not.  You  know  I  love 
and  honor  her  for  herself  and  always  shall." 

*You  are  right,"  said  the  father  proudly,  "and  you  are 
so  truly  a  man,  as  well  as  a  gentleman,  that  you  estimate 
my  penniless  daughter  at  her  intrinsic  worth.  As  far  as  my 
approval  and  good  wishes  are  concerned  you  have  them." 

Ella  thought  that  George's  face  was  wonderfully  radiant 
when  he  appeared.  As  soon  as  she  could  get  a  word  alone 
with  her  father,  she  asked,  "What  have  you  been  saying  to 
Mr.  Houghton?" 

"I  have  only  answered  his  second  request  that  he  might 
pay  you  his  addresses." 

"Oh,  papal  what  a  tantalizing  answer!  What  did  he 
say,  and  what  did  you  say,  word  for  word?  Surely  you 
didn't  tell—" 

"I  only  gave  my  consent,  not  yours.  You  are  at  perfect 
liberty  to  reject  him,"  was  the  smiling  reply. 

"That  is  well  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  I  wish  to  know  every 
word. " 


402  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Her  father's  heart  was  too  heavy  to  permit  continuance 
in  a  playful  vein,  and  he  told  her  substantially  what  had 
been  said.  ''Weil,"  she  concluded,  with  a  complacent 
little  nod,  ''I  think  I'll  let  him  pay  his  addresses  a  while 
longer.  The  absurd  fellow  to  go  and  idealize  me  sol  Time 
will  cure  such  folly,  however.  Papa,  there's  something 
troubling  you  besides  the  earthquake." 

"Yes,  Ella,  and  you  must  help  me — you  and  Cousin 
Sophy."  Then  he  told  her  how  he  thought  matters  stood 
between  Mara  and  Clancy,  checked  her  first  indignant 
words,  explained  and  insisted  until  she  promised  that  she 
and  Mrs.  Bodine  would  shield  Mara,  and  act  as  if  she  were 
as  free  as  she  had  ever  been.  ''It  will  all  come  about  yet, 
papa,"  Ella  whispered,  "for  Mr.  Clancy  has  evidently  com- 
mitted himself  to  Miss  Ainsley,  although  now  I  reckon  he 
regrets  it. ' ' 

"Well,  Ella  dear,  redouble  your  kindness  and  gentleness 
to  Mara,  and  let  matters  over  which  we  have  no  control 
take  their  course." 

Clancy  had  not  been  idle  during  the  morning,  finding  in 
constant  occupation,  and  even  in  the  incurring  of  risks, 
a  relief  to  his  perturbed  thoughts.  He  and  Sam  procured  a 
small  cooking-stove,  and  also  set  up  the  cross-sticks  of  a  gypsy 
camp  before  the  open  side  of  the  awning.  Aun'  Sheba  was 
placed  in  charge  of  the  provisions,  a  responsibility  in  which 
Uncle  Sheba  wished  to  share,  but  she  said  severely,  "Mr. 
Buggone,  you'se  dun  git  yer  lowance  wid  Sissy  an'  de 
chil'n." 

Mr.  Willoughby  at  last  returned  on  an  express-wagon, 
well  loaded  with  articles  which  would  add  much  comfort 
in  the  enforced  picnic.  His  face  was  sad  and  troubled  as 
he  greeted  his  wife. 

"Oh,  Jennie,"  he  said,  "our  pretty  home  is  such  a 
wreck!" 

"No  matter,  Hal,  since  you  are  safe  and  sound,"  was  her 
cheery  reply.  "Come,  girls,  we  can  now  dress  for  dinner. 
1  feel  like  a  fool  in  this  light  silk." 


''ON   JORDAN'S    BANKS    WE   STAN'''  403 

They  all  eventually  reappeared  in  costumes  more  suit- 
able for  camping. 

Mrs.  Bodine  was  also  enabled  to  exchange  her  blanket 
wrapper  for  the  one  she  was  accustomed  to  wear  at  home. 
With  almost  the  zest  of  a  girl  she  appreciated  the  pictu- 
resque elements  of  their  experiences;  and  her  high  spirits 
and  courage  were  infectious.  With  the  aid  of  Sam  and 
Jube,  Aun'  Sheba  entered  vigorously  on  preparations  for 
dinner;  a  breeze  with  passing  clouds  tempered  the  sun's 
hot  rays;  and  hope  again  began  to  cheer  as  time  passed 
without  further  disturbance. 


CHAPTEK  XLVI 
"on  Jordan's  banks  we  stan'  " 

AUN'  SHEBA  had  succeeded  fairly  well  with  the  din- 
ner, considering  the  materials  and  the  appliances 
available.  Not  one,  however,  was  disposed  to  epi- 
curean fastidiousness.  The  situation  was  gravely  discussed, 
and  the  experiences  of  friends  related.  Dr.  Devoe  gave 
cheering  assurances  that  injury  to  life  and  limb  had  been 
far  less  than  might  have  been  expected.  "The  first  shock 
could  scarcely  have  come  at  a  better  time,"  he  said.  '"If 
it  had  happened  when  the  streets  were  full  of  people,  one 
shudders  to  think  of  the  number  that  would  have  been 
killed  or  maimed.  The  fact  is,  the  great  majority  of 
casualties  appear  to  have  occurred  as  people  were  leaving 
their  houses." 

Mrs.  Hunter  received  much  attention  from  him,  and  she 
continued  so  ill  that  Mara  did  not  leave  her.  Bodine  be- 
came convinced  that  a  chance  to  speak  with  Mara  in  private 
might  not  be  obtained  very  speedily,  and  therefore,  with 
kindly  consideration  for  her  feelings,  resolved  to  write 
that  afternoon.  He  had  nothing  at  hand  better  than  pencil 
and  note-book.     He  wrote: 


404  THE   EARTH    TBEMBLED 

"My  dear  Mara — You  have  so  many  sorrows  and  anxieties  now  that  I 
cannot  wait  longer  in  my  effort  to  relieve  you  of  one  of  them.  You  should 
have  been  more  frank  with  me;  yet,  so  far  from  reproaching  you,  I  only  re- 
member that  you  are  the  daughter  of  my  dearest  friend,  and  that  you  need  me 
as  protector  and  father  rather  than  as  lover.  I  appreciate  your  motive  to  sacri- 
fice yourself  for  my  sake.  Perhaps  you  will  remember  that  I  have  warned  you 
against  this  noble  impulse  of  self-sacrifice— a  tendency,  however,  which  may 
be  carried  much  too  far.  You  utterly  misjudge  me  if  you  think  I  would  con- 
sciously accept  any  such  sacrifice  on  your  part.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned 
you  are  free  from  any  obligation  whatever,  except  that  of  trusting  me,  and 
coming  to  me  as  Ella  does,  as  nearly  as  you  can.  You  need  a  stanch  and  faith- 
ful protector  against  yourself,  and  such  will  be  Hugh  Bodine.  " 

Ella  carried  this  missive  into  the  little  tent  set  apart 
for  Mrs.  Hunter.  When  Mara  read  the  note  she  hid  it  in 
her  bosom,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Ella  tried 
to  soothe  her,  assuring  her  that  she  knew  how  it  had  all  come 
about,  and  that  it  would  make  no  difference  in  her  love. 

"Oh,  Ella!"  Mara  sobbed,  "my  pride  needed  humbling, 
and  I  am  overwhelmed  in  very  truth.  I  thought  I  was 
superior  to  you,  and  that  my  course  was  so  heroic.  The 
result  is  I  have  wronged  and  made  unhappy  your  father, 
the  man  I  honor  most  in  all  the  world.  Oh,  I  feel  now 
that  it  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  been  buried  under 
the  ruins. " 

"Mara,"  said  Ella  firmly,  "this  is  a  time  when  we  must 
make  the  best  of  everything — when  we  should  not  waste  our 
strength  in  grieving  over  what  cannot  be  helped.  Papa  has 
explained  everything  to  me,  and  you  will  only  wound  him 
further  if  you  do  not  comply  with  his  wishes.  He  is  very 
resolute;  and,  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,  you  could  not  move 
him  a  hair's-breadth.  Please  do  just  what  he  asks  now,  and 
let  time  make  future  duty  clearer. ' ' 

Bodine  was  not  astray  in  thinking  that  his  note  would 
relieve  Mara's  mind.  Sad  and  humiliated  as  she  was,  his 
words  had  taken  her  from  a  false  position,  and  would  en- 
able her  to  give  him  the  filial  love  and  homage  with  which 
her  heart  overflowed.  Even  if  Clancy  escaped  from  his 
entanglement,  which  she  much  doubted,  she  felt  that  both 
should  pay  the  penalty  of  their  errors  in  long  probation. 


''ON   JORDAN'S    BANKS    WE   STAN'''  405 

As  the  afterDOon  wore  away  Mrs.  Willoughby  and  Mrs. 
Bodine  took  some  much-needed  rest.  Clancy  went  down 
town  to  look  after  his  own  affairs.  Mr.  Houghton  had  a  con- 
sultation with  his  confidential  man  of  business,  at  which  George 
was  present.  Then  the  young  fellow  busied  himself  in  per- 
fecting the  camp  appointments  and  securing  more  provisions. 

Kern  Watson  and  his  family,  Aun'  Sheba  and  her  hus- 
band, with  old  Tobe  and  a  few  friends  and  neighbors, 
knelt  around  the  remains  of  little  Vilet  as  Mr.  Birdsall 
offered  a  prayer.  Bodine,  Ella,  and  George,  with  his  two 
servants,  were  also  present.  Then  the  minister  and  a  few 
others  helped  the  stricken  father  to  bury  his  child.  After 
the  brief  service  the  captain  told  Ella  that  she  must  go  and 
rest  till  he  called  her. 

George  ventured  to  walk  back  with  the  tearful  girl  and 
to  say,  "Miss  Bodine,  you  seem  to  have  a  hand  to  help 
and  a  heart  to  feel  with  every  one." 

"I  should  be  callous  indeed,"  she  replied,  "if  I  did  not 
grieve  at  the  death  of  that  little  girl.  She  aided  in  my 
effort  to  earn  a  livelihood.  I  saw  her  daily,  and  no  one 
could  help  becoming  fond  of  her,  she  was  so  good,  and 
gentle,  and  quiet.  Her  poor  father — how  I  pity  him!  The 
mute  anguish  in  his  face  was  overpowering.  He  is  the  most 
quiet,  but  he  grieves  the  most,  and  will  never  get  over  it." 

"I  think  you  are  right.  Miss  Bodine.  I  don't  believe 
your  intuitions  would  often  lead  you  astray." 

"1  am  very  matter-of-fact,"  Ella  replied. 

"If  I  admit  that,  I  must  also  add  that  one  would  have 
to  do  his  level  best  to  furnish  the  kind  of  facts  you  would 
approve  of. ' ' 

"And  I  must  also  add,  Mr.  Houghton,  that  you  are  fur- 
nishing them  in  plenty.  I  can  never  try  to  thank  you,  for 
I  shouldn't  know  where  to  begin,  or  when  to  leave  off." 

"Please  leave  off  now.  Oh,  Miss  Bodine!  1  am  so  grate- 
ful for  your  kindness  to  my  father,  and  he  is  just  as  pleased 
as  I  am. ' ' 

"Ah!  I've  at  last  caught  you  in  a  bit  of  selfishness," 


406  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

she  said  with  a  piquant  smile.  "  Y"ou  would  keep  the  privL 
lege  of  thanking  people  while  denying  it  to  me;"  and  she 
vanished  before  he  could  reply. 

"Oh!"  he  groaned  inwardly,  "if  any  of  these  Southern 
fellows  carry  her  off,  I'm  done  for." 

Miss  Ainsley  spent  a  very  wretched  afternoon.  Clancy 
was  away,  Mrs.  Willoughby  worn  out,  and  she  was  left 
chiefly  to  her  own  resources,  which  were  meagre  indeed 
under  the  circumstances.  Instead  of  forgetting  self  in  be- 
half of  those  less  fortunate,  she  brooded  over  what  she 
deemed  neglect.  Mr.  Willoughby  talked  to  her  for  a  time 
after  dinner,  and  then  busied  himself  in  helpinp,  others 
provide  shelter  against  the  coming  night;  loaning  here  and 
there  some  of  the  articles  which  he  had  brought  from  his 
home.  Throughout  the  day  multitudes  had  been  making 
preparations  to  spend  the  night  in  the  squares,  vacant  lots, 
and  in  spacious  yards.  Few  had  been  so  forehanded  as 
George  Houghton,  who  had  the  advantage  of  abundant 
means,  and  good,  fearless  help  in  his  efforts.  By  this  time, 
however,  the  square  was  well  covered  by  almost  every 
variety  of  hastily  improvised  shelters,  and  the  rays  of  the 
late  afternoon  san  brought  out  rainbow  hues,  strange  and 
picturesque  effects,  so  diverse  were  the  materials  employed 
and  the  ingenuity  in  construction  which  had  been  exercised. 

Clancy  had  been  almost  reckless  in  his  disposition  to 
enter  buildings,  a  risk  which  few  others  would  incur  on 
that  day.  He  returned  after  four  o'clock  with  a  large  sup- 
ply of  provisions,  which  he  believed  might  be  difficult  to 
obtain  should  the  shocks  continue  with  greater  violence. 
So  far  from  observing  that  he  was  pale  from  exhaustion. 
Miss  Ainsley  was  inclined  to  be  reproachful  that  he  had  re- 
mained away  so  long.  He  listened  wearily  for  a  time,  then 
answered,  "I  did  not  think  that  I  could  be  especially  useful 
here.  Men^  like  soldiers,  must  do  what  must  be  done.  1 
have  taken  pains  to  learn  in  your  behalf  that  telegraphic 
and  railroad  communication  will  soon  be  re-established,  and 
I  have  arranged,  as  soon  as  a  despatch  can  be  sent,  to  have 


"  ON    JORDAN'S    BANKS    WE    STAN'  "  407 

one  forwarded  to  your  father's  last  address,  assuring  him 
that  you  are  safe." 

"My  father  is  not  at  the  place  of  his  last  address.  If  he 
is  alive,  he  is  trying  to  reach  me,  and  he  will  not  leave  me 
till  he  has  taken  me  utterly  away  from  all  this  horror  and 
danger.     I  hope  you  are  ready  to  leave  Charleston  now. ' ' 

"Leave  my  native  city  in  its  present  plight!  Why,  Miss 
Ainsley,  that  would  be  almost  like  running  away  and  leav- 
ing my  mother." 

"Are  brick  and  mortar  more  to  you  than  I  am?" 

"Bricks  and  mortar  do  not  make  Charleston,  but  the 
people  with  whom  I  have  always  lived.  I  will  certainly 
take  you  to  a  place  of  safety,  if  your  father  cannot;  but 
my  duty  is  here.  I  would  not  only  lose  the  respect  of 
every  one,  but  also  my  own  self-respect,  if  I  did  not  cast 
in  my  lot  with  this  people  until  every  vestige  of  ruin  has 
disappeared." 

"I'm  sure  I  never  wish  to  see  the  place  again,"  she  re- 
plied sullenly. 

"It  would  be  unjust  for  me  to  expect  that  you  should 
feel  as  I  do  about  it;  but  1  am  a  citizen,  and  you  yourself 
would  eventually  despise  me  were  I  not  faithful  to  my 
obligations." 

This  method  of  putting  the  case  silenced  her  for  the 
time.  She  knew  that  he  had  ascribed  to  her  a  higher  con- 
ception of  duty  than  she  possessed,  and  she  believed  that 
he  was  also  aware  of  the  fact.  Since  she  had  gone  so  far 
with  him  she  now  wished  him  to  be  a  blind,  unquestioning 
lover,  wholly  devoted  and  ready  to  fly  with  her  at  the  first 
opportunity.  The  very  qualities  which  they  had  mutually 
admired  were  now  seen  on  their  seamy  side.  Her  cosmo- 
politan spirit  which  led  her  to  sigh,  "Anywhere  so  it  be 
not  Charleston,"  was  now  at  war  with  his  feeling  of  almost 
passionate  commiseration  for  his  stricken  birthplace;  while 
she  in  turn  found  his  unyielding  nature  and  keen  percep- 
tions which  had  afforded  such  pleasure  in  overcoming  and 
meeting  were  now  not  at  all  to  her  wishes.    She  had  yielded 


408  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

to  him  as  never  before  to  any  one,  and  was  intensely  cha- 
grined that  he  was  not  wholly  subservient  to  her.  If  he 
should  not  become  so  she  could  never  think  of  him  without 
humiliation.  He  had  seen  her  undisguised  in  all  her  weak- 
ness. She  had  thrown  herself  into  his  arms  and  implored 
his  protection  almost  as  unreservedly  as  Mrs.  Willoughby 
had  clung  to  her  husband.  She  had  also  left  him  when  he 
was  helpless,  and  again  when  he  was  ill  and  weak.  What 
she  required  now,  therefore,  was  a  blind  idolatry;  and  so 
many  had  offered  this  that  she  felt  entitled  to  it,  even 
though  there  should  be  no  such  devotion  on  her  part.  If, 
in  any  sense,  he  should  be  critic  as  well  as  lover,  he  could 
make  her  exceedingly  uncomfortable;  and  she  had  a  grow- 
ing perception  that  he  was  comparing  her  with  others,  that 
there  was  a  lack  of  warmth  in  his  words  and  manner,  which 
even  the  circumstances  could  not  extenuate.  She  resolved, 
therefore,  to'  teach  him  that  she  would  tolerate  nothing  half- 
way in  his  conduct.  She  was  sitting  on  a  chair  while  he  re- 
clined at  her  feet,  and  she  determined  that  he  should  be  at 
her  feet  in  a  sense  which  had  large  meanings  to  her.  So 
she  rose  and  said  coldly,  "Mr.  Clancy,  you  seem  to  have  so 
many  obligations  that  I  scarcely  know  where  I  come  in." 

Then  she  went  toward  the  awning,  intending  to  withdraw 
herself  from  his  society  until  he  should  become .  sufficiently 
humble.  He  rose  in  strong  irritation,  too  weary  even  to  be 
patient.  At  this  instant  the  shock  which  occurred  at  6.16 
passed  over  the  city.  In  a  second  all  her  purposes  van- 
ished; her  abject  terror  returned,  and  she  threw  herself  on 
his  breast,  and  sobbing,  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 
Mrs.  Willoughby  also  fled  to  her  husband.  As  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter had  seemed  quieter  Ann'  Sheba  had  been  watching  in 
the  place  of  Mara,  who  had  sought  a  little  rest  beneath  the 
awning.  She  now  came  hastily  out,  but  Clancy  would  not 
encounter  her  eyes.  Indeed,  his  false  position  overwhelmed 
him  with  increasing  shame  and  confusion.  He  resolved  in 
a  sort  of  desperation  to  meet  Miss  Ainsley's  requirements 
as  far  as  possible  until  she  was  safe  in  her  father's  hands, 


**0N   JORDAN'S   BANKS    WE   STAN'"  409 

and  then  to  become  free.  If  he  had  known  how  Mara's 
position  enabled  her  to  interpret  his  own  he  would  have 
been  more  resigned. 

The  shock  which  occurred  so  late  in  the  day  was  a  sad 
preparation  for  the  night,  to  which  all  looked  forward  with 
unspeakable  dread.  Such  little  confidence  or  cheerfulness 
as  had  been  maintained  was  dissipated;  weariness  and  de- 
ferred relief  increased  the  general  dejection;  only  the  brav- 
est could  maintain  their  fortitude. 

Mrs.  Bodine's  courage  was  due  to  a  faith  and  a  tempera- 
ment which  did  not  fail  her.  The  veteran  remained  quiet 
and  steady,  with  soldier-like  endurance,  bat  Ella  was  be- 
coming exhausted.  She  had  had  very  little  sleep  for  a  long 
time,  and  had  passed  through  strong  excitement.  Indeed, 
all  her  powers  had  been  taxed  severely.  While  she  had 
more  physical  and  moral  courage  than  most  girls  of  her 
age  possess,  she,  like  the  great  majority,  su£Eered  much 
from  fear  at  the  recurrence  of  the  shocks.  As  night  came 
on  she  yielded  to  the  general  depression. 

Aun'  Sheba  also  had  almost  reached  the  limits  of  her 
powers,  a  fact  she  could  not  help  showing  as  she  set  about 
preparations  for  supper.  George  instantly  noted  this.  He 
had  secured  some  rest  the  night  before,  and  possessed  great 
capabilities  of  endurance  combined  with  an  unusually  fear- 
less spirit.  He  also  believed  that  this  was  his  hour  and  op- 
portunity, and  that  he  could  do  more  to  win  Ella's  favor 
that  night  by  brave  cheerful  efiort  than  by  any  amount  of 
love-making  afterward.  He  little  dreamed  how  completely 
won  she  was  already.  Her  plan  of  receiving  his  "addresses'' 
indefinitely  had  already  lost  its  charms.  She  now  simply 
longed  to  lean  her  weary  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  be 
petted  and  comforted  a  little.  Unaware  that  the  citadel 
could  be  had  at  any  time  for  the  asking,  George  began  his 
sapping  and  mining  operations  with  great  vigor.  He  made 
Aun'  Sheba  sit  down  and  give  directions  for  supper,  which 
he  and  his  two  colored  men  carried  out.     Mrs.  Bodine  was 

the  only  one  who  would  jest  with  him,  and  he  had  a  word 

R— Roe— xy 


410  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

of  banter  with  her;  and  a  cheery  word  for  every  one  as  oc= 
casion  permitted. 

"Bravo,  George!"  said  Dr.  Devoe,  as  they  at  last  sat 
down  to  supper,  "We  vote  you  the  Mark  Tapley  of  this 
occasion.  I'm  so  used  up  that  I've  only  energy  enough  to 
drink  a  cup  of  coffee. ' ' 

Ella  was  about  to  wait  on  Mr.  Haughton  as  before,  but 
George  intercepted  her,  saying,  "You  are  too  tired." 

"I  would  rather,"  she  urged  with  downcast  eyes.  She 
bore  the  tray  to  the  invalid,  who  looked  at  her  very  kindly, 
as  he  said,  "You  are  worn  out,  my  dear." 

"Please  don't  speak  that  way,"  she  faltered.  "I'm  just 
that  silly  and  tired  that  I  can't  stand  anything." 

"You  brave,  noble  girl!  What  haven't  you  stood  and 
endured  for  the  last  few  hours  and  weeks !  I  have  a  very 
guilty  conscience,  Miss  Bodine,  and  you  only  can  absolve 
me." 

"No  one  must  be  kind  to  me  to-night,  or  I  shall  break 
down  utterly;"  and  dashing  a  tear  away,  she  hastily  with- 
drew. 

George  heaped  her  plate;  but  when  he  saw  that  she  would 
touch  nothing  but  her  coffee,  he  looked  at  her  with  such 
deep  solicitude  in  his  face  that  she  sprang  up  and  fled  to  the 
sheltering  awning,  leaving  him  perplexed  and  troubled  in- 
deed. All  were  too  well  bred  to  make  any  remark  upon 
this  little  side  scene.  At  her  post  of  observation  by  the 
fire,  and  although  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  tributes  to 
little  Vilet,  Aun'  Sheba  shook  for  a  moment  with  sup- 
pressed laughter.  Motherly  Mrs.  Bodine  soon  followed 
Ella,  and  taking  her  in  her  arms,  said  soothingly,  "There, 
now,  child,  have  a  good  cry,  and  you'll  feel  better.  I  wish 
to  the  Lord,  though,  that  all  the  world  had  as  little  to  cry 
about  as  you,  my  dear." 

"That's  what  provokes  me  so,  cousin.  It's  so  silly  and 
weak." 

"Oh,  well,  Ella,  you're  done  beat  out,  as  Aun'  Sheba 
says;    and  that's  the  only  trouble — that  and  the  blindness 


"0^    JORDAN'S    BANKS    WE   STAN'''  411 

of  yonder  great  boy,  who  expects  to  court  you  for  months 
before  venturing  to  stammer  some  incoherent  nonsense. 
Now,  a  Southern  man—" 

'' Cousin  Sophy,  I  won't  listen  to  such  words,  said  l^iia, 
the  hot  blood  coming  into  her  pale  face.  ''He  isn't  a  great 
boy  he's  the  bravest  man  I  ever  heard  of.  Now,  when 
every  one  is  giving  out,  he  is  only  the  braver  and  stronger. 
If  he  is  absurd  enough  to  be  afraid  of  me—  Well,  you  are 
the  last  one  to  speak  so." 

''There,  there,  child;  this  is  my  way  of  feeling  your 
pulse  and  giving  a  little  tonic,"  said  Mrs.  Bodme,  laugh- 
ing "You  have  indications  of  strong  vitality,  as  the  doc- 
tor would  say..  Bless  the  big  Vandal!  If  I  were  a  girl, 
I'd  set  my  cap  at  him  myself." 

"Oh,  Cousin  Sophy!  Aren't  you  ashamed  to  work  me 
up  so  ? '  Well,  that  is  the  last  glimmer  of  spunk  that  I  can 

show  to-night."  ,  .        .  ■ 

"If  I  could  only  manage  to  give  him  a  hint  of  your  weak 

and  defenceless  condition— "  .    .    i  •    -,     ,,       a 

"Cousin  Sophy,  if  you  do  anything  of  the  kind-  and 
she  almost  sprang  to  her  feet. 

The  old  lady  pulled  her  back,  stopped  her  mouth  with 
kisses,  as  she  said,  "I  won't  tease  you  any  more  to-night." 
In  a  few  moments  she  had  soothed  the  girl  to  sleep. 

George  and  Clancy  now  took  full  charge  of  the  camp; 
for  the  members  of  their  party,  both  white  and  black,  were 
so  exhausted  and  depressed  as  to  be  unequal  to  much  exer- 
tion Clancy  seemed  possessed  by  a  sort  of  feverish  rest- 
lessness If  he  had  been  soothed  and  quieted  when  he  re- 
turned in  the  afternoon,  he  would  have  passed  the  danger 
point  unharmed;  but  his  jaded  body  and  mmd  had  been 
stung  into  renewed  action,  and  now  he  was  fast  losing  the 
power  to  rest.  Outraged  Nature  was  beginning  to  take  her 
revenge,  but  no  one  except  Bodine  observed  the  fact.  Agam 
putting  self  under  his  feet,  he  took  Clancy  aside,  and  saia, 
"Pardon  an  old  soldier,  but  experience  in  the  field  has 
tau-ht  me  when  a  man  must  stop.     Dr.  Devoe  is  exhausted 


412  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

and  asleep,  or  I  would  send  him  to  you.  So  take  honest 
advice  from  me.  If  you  don't  quiet  your  nerves  and  sleep, 
you'll  have  trouble." 

Clancy,  in  grateful  surprise,  thanked  him  warmly,  and 
said  he  would  rest  later  on.  His  hope  was^  that  Miss  Ains- 
ley  would  retire,  for  in  his  present  condition  he  felt  that 
her  voluble  expressions  of  fear  and  general  dissatisfaction 
would  be  intolerable.  At  this  juncture  some  one  came  and 
said  that  a  friend  of  his  in  another  part  of  the  square  was  ill 
and  wished  to  see  him.  He  explained  and  excused  himself 
to  Miss  Ainsley,  who  replied  only  by  a  cold,  reproachful 
glance. 

The  light  of  day  faded:  the  stars  shone  calmly  above  the 
strange  scene,  where  lamps  and  candles  flickered  dim  and 
pale,  like  the  hopes  of  those  who  had  lighted  them.  The 
murmur  of  conversation  was  lost  in  the  loud  singing  of 
hymns,  prayers  and  exhortations  on  the  part  of  the  negroes. 
Mr.  Birdsall  had  gathered  many  of  his  flock  about  him, 
and  was  conducting  a  religious  service  in  a  fairly  orderly 
manner.  Both  he  and  his  people  yielded  somewhat  to  the 
intense  excitement  of  the  occasion,  but  it  was  his  intention 
that  the  religious  exercises  should  cease  at  a  reasonable 
hour. 

Kern,  Sissy,  and  Aun'  Sheba  were  sitting  silently  near 
him,  and  at  last  the  minister  said,  "Bruder  Watson,  you 
an'  your  wife  will  feel  bettah  if  you  express  you'se  feelin's, 
an'  sing  a  while.  I  reckon,  if  I  say  you  an'  you'  wife  will 
sing,  they  will  be  mo'  quiet." 

Kern  assented  to  anything  like  a  call  of  duty,  and  Mr. 
Birdsall  resumed,  "Fren's,  in  closin'  de  meetin'  fer  dis 
ebenin',  Bruder  an'  Sista  Watson  will  sing  a  hymn  to- 
geder;  an'  we,  respectin'  dere  berebement,  will  listen. 
Dey  have  been  greatly  offlicted,  for  de  Lawd  has  taken 
from  dem  de  lam'  of  dere  bosoms.  I  ask  you  all  now  to 
listen  to  de  expression  of  dere  faith  in  dis  night  ob  sorrow. 
Den  we  mus'  remembah  dat  de  sick  an'  weak  are  in  dis 
squar,  and  gib  dem  a  chance  to  res'." 


*'0N    JORDAN'S    BANKS    WE   STAN'''  413 

Kern  lifted  up  his  magnificent  voice,  charged  with  the 
pent-up  feeling  of  his  heart,  and  his  wife  joined  him  with 
her  rich,  powerful  contralto. 

"On  Jordan's  banks  we  stan', 

An  Jordan's  stream  roll  by; 

No  bridge  de  watahs  span, 

De  flood  am  risin  high, 

Heah  it  foam  an'  roar,  de  dark  flood  tide, 

How  shel  we  cross  to  de  oder  side? 

"De  nber  deep  an  strong, 
De  wabes  am  bery  cole; 
We  see  it  rush  along, 

But  who  can  venture  bole? 
Heah  it  foam  an'  roar,  etc. 

"A  little  chile  step  down; 
It  go  in  de  riber  deep. 
Kin  little  feet  touch  groun' 
Whar  mountain  billows  sweep? 
Heah  dem  foam  an  roar,  etc. 

"Dere  comes  a  flash  ob  light, 
Ober  de  cole  dark  wabes; 
Dere  come  de  angels'  flight — 
See  shinin'  hans  dat  sabe, 
From  de  watah's  foam,  de  dark  flood  tide, 
Fer  de  Lawd  hab  seen  from  de  oder  side. 

"Heah  music  swellin  gran'; 
Yes,  songs  of  welcome  ring, 
White  wings  de  riber  span 
De  little  chile  to  bring. 
Den  let  ole  Jordan  roar,  de  dark  flood  tide ; 
We'se  borne  across  to  de  oder  side." 

The  melodious  duet  rose  and  fell  in  great  waves  of  sound, 
silencing  all  other  voices.  Contrary  to  Mr.  Birdsall's  ex- 
pectations, religious  fervor  was  only  increased,  and  hoping 
to  control  it  he  asked  Kern  and  Sissy  to  lead  in  several  fa- 
miliar hymns.  The  negroes  throughout  the  square  promptly 
responded,  while  not  a  few  white  refugees  joined  their  voices 
to  the  mighty  diapason  of  sound,  which  often  swelled  into 
grand  harmonies. 


414  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

Kern  soon  afterward  went  on  duty  for  the  night;  Mr. 
Birdsali  confined  himself  to  quiet  ministrations  to  his  own 
people,  and  the  leadership  of  the  religious  exercises  fell  into 
less  judicious  hands. 


CHAPTER   XLVII 

LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS   OF   A   NIGHT 

A  UN'  SHEBA,  with  a  devotion  which  quite  equalled 
that  to  her  own  offspring,  returned  to  Mara  with  the 
intention  of  watching  Mrs.  Hunter  while  the  girl 
slept.  She  found  Mrs.  Bodine  sitting  with  Mara,  but  the 
old  colored  woman  was  received  with  a  warmth  of  welcome 
and  sympathy  which  put  her  at  ease  at  once.  Mrs.  Hunter 
had  sunk  into  a  kind  of  stupor  rendering  her  unconscious 
of  what  was  passing,  and  therefore  they  conversed  in  low 
tones. 

''I  reckon  we  need  have  no  secrets  from  Aun'  Sheba, " 
said  Mrs.  Bodine. 

"No,"  answered  Mara,  taking  her  old  mammy's  hand. 
"If  ever  a  motherless  girl  had  a  true  friend  1  have  one  in 
Aun'  Sheba." 

"Yes,  honey,  you'se  right  dar,  an'  I  hopes  you  git  right 
on  some  oder  tings.  I  put  a  spoke  in  de  hon'ble  business 
an'  I'se  ready  to  put  mo'  in."  She  then  briefly  related  her 
interview  with  Clancy  and  concluded,  "Missy  Mara,  fo'  de 
Lawd,  wot  kin  you  do  but  mar'y  Marse  Clancy  arter  wot 
happen  wen  he  come  fer  you  an'  ole  missus  ?' ' 

Mara  made  no  reply,  but  sat  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands. 

"Aun'  Sheba,  this  matter  is  all  settled  and  settled  honor- 
ably, too,  as  far  as  it  can  be.  Captain  Bodine  has  released 
Mara  in  words  of  the  utmost  kindness." 

"Well,  now,  he  am  quality!"  ejaculated  Aun'  Sheba  in 
hearty  appreciation. 


LIGHTS    AJSD    SHADOWS    OF  A    NIGHT  415 

''But,"  sobbed  Mara,  "it  just  breaks  my  heart—" 

"JSIo,  honey  lam',  it  won'  break  you  heart,  nor  his 
nuther.  '  Doin'  what's  right  an'  nat'ral  an  'cordin  to  de 
Lawd  doan  break  no  hearts.  It's  de  oder  ting  wot  dus  in 
de  long  run,  an'  mar'm'  gen'ly  means  a  long  run.  You'd 
hab  ter  begin  by  lyin'  'miscuously,  as  1  tole  Marse  Clancy, 
an  no  good  ud  come  ob  dat. " 

"Well,  it  is  all  settled  as  far  as  Mara  is  concerned,"  said 
Mrs.  Bodine,  with  a  little  laugh,  "and  there  need  be  no 
'miscuous  lying.  How  Mr.  Clancy  will  get  out  of  his 
scrape  remains  to  be  seen." 

''Well,  I  tells  you  how  he  git  out.  I'se  keep  an  eye  on 
dat  limpsey-slimpsey  runaway  as  well  as  on  de  pots  an  kit- 
tles, an  she's  gwine  ter  run  away  agin  from  dis  yere  town 
3es  'as  soon  as  de  way  open.     Dat' 11  be  de  las  you  see  ob 

her." 

"She's  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  poor  thing,"  said  Mrs. 
Bodine,  charitably,  "and  we  can't  expect  her  to  feel  about 
Charleston  as  we  do.  The  question  is,  will  Mr.  Clancy  feel 
obliged  to  follow  her  eventually  ?" 

"I  tink  he's  'bliged  not  ter." 

"Well,  Aun'  Sheba,  I'm  glad  you  have  such  strong 
religions  ideas  of  marriage." 

"I'se  feerd  I  ain't  bery  'ligious  'bout  anyting.  I  put 
myself  on  'bation  while  ago,  but  I  kin'er  forgits  'bout  dat 
'bation,  1  hab  so  much  to  tink  ob." 

Mrs.  Bodine  began  to  laugh  as  she  said,  "I  thought  you 
were  a  sensible  woman,  Aun'  Sheba." 

"Yes,  1  know.     I  did  tole  Marse  Clancy  dat  1  hab  boss- 

sense." 

"Then  you  were  lying  'miscuously." 

"How  dat,  missus?" 

"Why,  Aun'  Sheba,  do  you  think  you  have  been  hiding 
your  light  under  a  bushel  basket  all  this  time  ?  Old  Han- 
nah—poor old  Hannah!  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  her 
—she  and  Mara  have  told  me  how  you  do  for  the  sick  and 
poor.     Don't  you  know  that  the  Bible  says,  'Inasmuch  as 


416  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  My  brethren 
ye  have  done  it  unto  Me'  ?  You've  sent  me  nice  things 
more  than  once.  I'm 'one  of  the  least  of  these.'  You  don't 
do  these  things  to  be  seen  of  men." 

"No,  nor  I  doesn't  do  it  kase  I  specs  ter  git  anoder 
string  to  my  harp  bime-by.  I  does  it  kase  I'se  kin'er  sorry 
f er  de  po'  critters. ' ' 

"Exactly.  That  is  why  He  fed  the  hungry  and  healed 
the  sick.  He  was  sorry  for  them.  Come,  Aun'  Sheba,  don't 
be  foolish  any  more." 

"1  feels  it  kin'er  sumptions  ter  be  so  shuah." 

''Now,  Aun'  Sheba,  you  are  doing  wrong,"  said  Mrs. 
Bodine,  gravely  and  earnestly.  "The  Lord  has  been  very 
patient  with  you— more  so  than  I  would  be.  If  I  had  made 
you  promises  and  you  kept  saying,  'I  don't  feel  sure  about 
them,'  I'd  give  you  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"Lor,  missus,  how  you  puts  it!     Is  it  dataway  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  den,  1  jes  takes  myse'f  o£E  'bation.  I'se  gwine 
ter  hang  outer  de  promises.  Lawd,  Lawd,  missus,  I  s'posed 
I'd  hab  ter  groan  so  dey  heah  me  all  ober  de  square  fo' 
I  could  be  'ligious." 

"Oh,  dear,  hear  it  now!  Such  groaning  makes  every 
one  else  groan.  The  voice  that  God  hears  is  the  wish  of 
the  heart  and  not  a  hullabaloo.  How  shall  we  get  through 
the  night  if  this  keeps  up?  If  you'll  help  me  to  my  quar- 
ters I'll  try  to  get  what  rest  I  can." 

When  Aun'  Sheba  returned,  Mara  insisted  on  her  lying 
down  till  she  was  called.  "I  shall  do  something  in  this 
time  of  trouble  except  make  trouble,"  said  the  girl  reso- 
lutely, and  she  would  take  no  denial. 

Clancy  found  that  his  friend  needed  much  attention, 
which  he  gave  until  warned  by  his  own  symptoms  that  he 
must  see  a  physician.  He  found  George  lying  on  a  blanket 
by  a  small  fire,  and  that  all  the  others  were  either  sleeping 
or  resting.  "I  declare  I  hate  to  waken  Dr.  Devoe,"  he 
said,  "but  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  be  ili" 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS    OF  A    NIGHT  417 

George  felt  the  hand  of  his  friend,  and  sprang  up,  say- 
ing, ''I'll  waken  Dr.  Devoe  with  or  without  your  leave." 

After  a  brief  exaniination  the  physician  said: 

"Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  before  ?" 

Clancy  explained  that  he  had  been  caring  for  a  sick 
friend,  to  which  the  doctor  replied  testily: 

"I  don't  believe  he  was  half  so  ill  as  you  are.  Well, 
you  must  obey  me  now  as  long  as  you  are  rational,  and  I 
fear  that  won't  be  very  long."  And  he  promptly  placed 
Clancy  under  the  open  part  of  the  awning,  which  was  the 
sleeping-room  for  the  men  by  night,  and  general  living- 
room  by  day.  Having  given  his  patient  a  remedy,  he  re- 
turned and  said,  "Here  you  are,  too,  Houghton,  up  and 
around.     Do  you  wish  to  break  down  also?" 

"You  forget,  doctor,  that  1  had  some  sleep  last  night. 

Feel  my  pulse." 

"Slightly  febrile,  but  then  1  know  what's  the  matter 
with  you,  if  1  were  not  so  old  and  bald-headed  I'd  cut  out 
a  slow  coach  like  you.     I'm  half  a  mind  to  try  it  as  it  is." 

"Go  ahead,  doctor.  You'll  be  only  one  more.  How 
many  are  there  now,  do  you  suppose?" 

"I  know  how  many  there  should  be  after  what  I've  seen. 
But  bah  I  you  Northern  young  chaps  lay  siege  to  a  girl  at 
such  long  range  that  she  surrenders  to  some  other  fellow 
before  you  find  it  out." 

"Would  you  have  me  call  her  now,  shake  her  awake, 
and  propose?"  asked  George,  irritably. 

"No,  I'd  have  you  fight  shy  and  give  me  a  chance. 
There,  you  are  too  far  gone  for  a  jest.     What  are  you  up 

for?"  . 

"Because  I'm  not  sleepy,  for  one  thing,  and  I  think  some 
one  should  be  on  guard.  What's  more,  1  don't  like  the  way 
those  negroes  are  performing.    They  seem  to  be  going  wild. 

"Yes,  and  they  are  doing  a  lot  of  harm  to  the  sick  and 
feeble.  If  they  don't  stop  at  midnight  I'll  find  out  whether 
there's  any  law  in  this  city.  I  say,  Houghton,  since  you  are 
going  to  sit  up,  give  Clancy  this  medicine  every  half  hour, 


418  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

and  call  me  at  twelve."     He  then  wrapped  himself  in  a 
blanket  and  was  asleep  in  a  minute. 

If  George  had  been  wide  awake  before,  the  doctor's  rail- 
lery so  increased  his  impatience  and  worry  that  for  a  time  he 
paced  up  and  down  before  the  lire.  Was  he  faint-hearted  in 
wooing  Ella?  Suppose  some  bold  Southerner  should  fore- 
stall him  ?  The  thought  was  torture;  yet  it  seemed  ungen- 
erous and  unkind  to  seek  her  openly  while  she  was  in  a 
sense  his  guest  and  dependent  upon  him.  "Well,"  he 
growled  at  last,  "1  won't  do  it.  When  she  first  spoke  to 
me  she  said  1  was  a  gentleman,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  1  don't 
remain  one  and  take  my  chances." 

He  threw  himself  down  again  by  the  fire  with  his  back 
to  the  awning.  Before  very  long  he  heard  a  light  step. 
Turning  hastily  he  saw  Ella's  startled  face  by  the  light  of 
the  fire. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Houghton!  is  it  you?  Pardon  me  for  disturb- 
ing you,"  and  she  was  about  to  retreat. 

He  was  on  his  feet  instantly  and  said,  "You  will  only 
disturb  me  by  going  away,  that  is— I  mean  if  you  are  not 
tired  and  sleepy. ' ' 

"There  is  such  a  dreadful  noise  1  can't  sleep  any  more," 
she  replied,  hesitating  a  moment. 

' '  Suppose— you  might  help  me  watch  a  little  while  then, 
he  stammered. 

"I'll  watch  if  you  will  rest." 

"Certainly;"  and  he  brought  her  a  chair  and  then  re- 
clined near  her  feet. 

"But  I  meant  that  you  should  sleep." 

"I  only  promised  to  rest." 

"But  you  need  sleep  if  any  one  does.  I've  had  a  good 
nap  and  feel  much  better.     How  late  is  it?" 

"Nearly  eleven,  and  time  for  Clancy's  medicine."  When 
he  returned  he  told  her  about  Clancy. 

"Poor  fellow!"  she  said,  sympathetically. 

"Clancy  seems  to  have  trouble  on  his  mind.  We  all 
have  enough,  but  he  more  than  his  share." 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS    OF  A    NIGHT  4:19 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  worried  out  of  your 
senses  with  so  many  people  to  think  about  and  care  for. 
No  wonder  you  can't  sleep." 

"Thoughts  of  people  do  not  keep  me  awake,  and  I  am 
glad  to  say  my  father's  resting  quietly.  He  and  your 
father  are  born  soldiers." 

"Your  father's  to  blame  for  my  making  a  fool  of  myself 
at  the  supper-table.  He  spoke  so  kindly  and  sympatheti- 
cally, and  I  was  so  tired  and  silly  that  I  couldn't  stand  any- 
thing. Then  you  looked  reproachfully  at  me  because  I 
couldn't  eat  all  you  sent — enough  to  make  Uncle  Sheba  ill." 

"Now,  Miss  Bodine,  I  didn't  look  at  you  reproachfully." 

"Who's  that  snoring  over  there?" 

"Dr.  Devoe.  My  facial  muscles  must  have  been  shaken 
out  of  shape  to  have  given  you  so  false  an  impression. 
Anyhow,  1  seem  to  have  driven  you  away,  and  I've  been 
miserable  ever  since." 

"Why,  Mr.  Houghton!  The  idea  of  letting  a  tired  girl's 
weakness  disturb  you!  You  will  soon  be  as  ill  as  Mr. 
Clancy." 

"I'm  only  stating  a  fact." 

"Well,  facts  are  very  queer  nowadays.  I  suppose  we 
shouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything." 

"Yet  you  are  a  continual  surprise  to  me,  Miss  Bodine. 
Do  you  think  I've  forgotten  anything  since  you  carried 
Mrs.  Bodine  out  of   her  tottering  house?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Houghton!  my  memory  goes  further  back  than 
that.  I  can  see  a  tall  man  leap  into  a  sinking  boat  and — 
and— oh,  why  did  you  sink  with  it?  My  father's  agony 
over  the  thought  that  you  had  died  for  him  turned  his  hair 
white." 

"I  couldn't  help  sinking.  Miss  Bodine.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  that  blasted  pole—  Well,  perhaps  it  saved  all  our  lives, 
for  my  boat  was  overloaded  as  it  was.  But  don't  think 
about  that  affair.     It  might  have  turned  out  worse." 

"It  might  indeed.  If  you  knew  how  we  all  felt  when  we 
thought  you  were  drowned!" 


420  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

''Well,  I  thank  God  that  I  happened  to  be  near." 

' '  Happened !    You  seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  of  evil, 
and  kept  near." 

"I  was  facing  a  certainty  of  evil  then,  Miss  Bodine. 
I  expected  to  go  North  in  a  few  days,  and  feared  I  might 
not  see  you  again.  There,  I  shouldn't  speak  so  now.  My 
memory  goes  back  further  than  yours.  I  remember  a  blue- 
eyed  stranger  who  drew  near  to  me  when  I  was  facing  a 
street  bully,  as  if  she  meditated  becoming  my  protector. 
I  saw  a  noble  woman's  soul  in  those  clear  eyes,  and  she 
said  '1  was  a  gentleman.'  I  must  remember  her  words  now 
with  might  and  main.  All  that  I  ask  is  that  you  won't  let 
any  one  else — that  you  will  give  me  a  chance  when  in  your 
own  home.     Your  father  has — ' ' 

"Mr.  Houghton,  is  it  not  time  for  Mr.  Clancy's  medi- 
cine?" 

''Yes,  and  past  time,"  he  replied,  ruefully. 

When  he  returned  she  said  demurely,  "I  think  I  can 
promise  what  you  ask.  Now  surely,  since  your  mind  is  at 
rest,  you  can  sleep.     I  will  watch." 

"I'm  too  happy  to  sleep." 

"How  absurd!" 

"Oh,  the  shock  this  morning  did  not  disturb  me  half  so 
much  as  to  see  those  fellows  around  with  their  devouring 
eyes. ' ' 

"Mr.  Houghton,  don't  you  think  that  if  we  asked  them, 
those  colored  people  would  be  less  loud  ?  It  must  be  dread- 
ful for  those  who  are  sick,  and  there  are  so  many." 

"They  will  be  brutal  indeed  if  they  don't  yield  to  you," 
and  he  led  the  way  to  the  nearest  centre  of  disturbance. 

"Oh,  see!     Mr.  Houghton,  there's  our  old  Hannah." 

He  saw  an  old  woman  swaymg  back  and  forth,  her  lips 
moving  spasmodically,  but  uttering  no  sound.  The  crowd 
watched  her  in  a  sort  of  breathless  suspense.  Suddenly  she 
burst  out  with  the  hymn,  "Oh,  Easlin'  Jacob!  let  me  go," 
and  the  throng  joined  in  the  mighty  refrain.  The  women 
swayed  to  and  fro  violently,  all  going  together  in  a  sort 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS    OF  A    NIGHT  421 

of  rhythmic  motion,  meantime  clapping  their  hands  in  an 
ecstasy  of  emotion.  A  man  dropped  to  the  earth  "con- 
verted."  He  yelled  rather  than  prayed  for  mercy,  then 
suddenly  swooned  and  became  rigid  as  a  corpse.  Others, 
both  men  and  women,  were  prostrated  also;  and  to  bring 
as  many  as  possible  into  this  helpless  condition  appeared  to 
be  the  general  object  as  far  as  any  purpose  was  manifested. 
The  crowd  seemed  to  regard  poor,  demented  Hannah  as 
inspired,  for  a  space  was  kept  clear  before  her.  When  she 
began  to  sway  in  her  weird  fashion,  and  her  face  to  twitch, 
she  was  the  priestess  and  the  oracle.  The  hymn  she  began 
was  taken  up  first  by  two  self-appointed  exhorters,  then 

by  all.  .  ,  ,   , 

"Oh,    Hannah!"  cried   Ella,   when   her  voice  could   be 

heard,    ''do  stop  and  come  away.     You  are  harming  the 

sick  and  the  injured." 

The  old  woman  started,  and  on  seeing  the  girl  rushed 

forward,  crying,  ''Down  on  you  knees.     Now  you  chance. 

Pray,  bruders,  pfay,  sistahs.     De  quakes  neber  stop  till  a 

white  man  or  woman  converted— converted  till  dere  proud 

heads  in  de  bery  dus'  "-and  she  sought  to  force  Ella  on 

hpT  knees 

In  a  moment  Ella  was  surrounded  by  the  worshippers, 
whose  groans,  shouts,  prayers  and  ejaculations  created  Pan- 
demonium. The  girl  was  terrified,  but  George  encircled  her 
with  his  arm,  and  thundered,  ''Give  way.  I'll  brain  the 
first  man  who  stops  us." 

Awed  for  an  instant  they  yielded  to  George's  vigorous 
push  out  and  away,  and  then  returned  to  their  former  wild 
indulgence  of  religious  frenzy. 

For  several  paces  after  their  escape  he  seemed  to  forget 
that  his  arm  was  still  around  Ella,  nor  did  she  remind  him. 
Suddenly  he  removed  it,  saying,  "  Pardon  me,  Miss  Bodme, 
I  am  that  enraged  with  those  lunatics  that  I'd  like  to  give 
them  something  to  howl  about." 

' '  Please  be  calm,  Mr.  Houghton, ' '  said  Ella  gently.  "  I  m 
not  afraid  now,  and  should  not  have  been  afraid  at  all.     I 


422  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

know  these  people  better  than  you  do.  They  wouldn't 
have  harmed  us,  and  I  fear  they  don't  know  any  better. 
It's  only  their  looks,  tones,  and  words  that  seem  blas- 
phemous, that  are  frightful.  It  was  I  who  took  you  there 
and  I  should  have  known  better." 

"Oh,  Ella!— beg  pardon— Miss  Bodine,  what  a  savage 
a  man  would  be  if  you  couldn't  manage  him!" 

' '  Then  promise  you  won't  go  near  those  people  any  more. ' ' 

''You.  are  too  brave  a  girl  to  ask  that  when  you  learn 
that  Dr.  Devoe  is  going  to  tackle  them  with  the  police  if 
they  don't  quiet  down  by  midnight." 

They  spoke  in  low  tones  as  he  again  held  her  hand, 
while  they  picked  their  way  among  the  extemporized  shel- 
ters and  uneasy  refugees  in  the  square.  As  they  approached 
their  own  quarters  she  faltered,  "I'm  not  very  brave  to- 
night, and  I  have  long  since  learned  that  you  are  only  too 

brave." 

He  paused,  still  retaining  her  hand  as  he  said,  "What 
a  strange  scene  this  is!  How  wild  and  unearthly  those 
sounds  now  seem!  How  odd  it  aJl  is— our  homes  yonder 
deserted  and  we  here  under  the  stars.  It's  stranger  than 
any  dream  I  ever  had,  yet  if  it  were  a  dream  I  would  not 
wish  to  wake  with  you — " 

"Mr.  Houghton,  what's  that,  that,  that?'' 

Far  oft  in  the  southeast  there  were  sounds  like  faint  ex- 
plosions which  grew  rapidly  louder.  Instinctively  he  drew 
her  nearer,  and  saw  her  face  grow  white  even  in  the  faint 
radiance  of  the  stars. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped  shuddering  as  the  deep  roar  of  the 
coming  earthquake  began.  Then  his  arm  drew  her  close, 
and  she  hid  her  face  on  his  breast. 

"Ella,"  he  said  solemnly,  "I  love  you,  God  knows  if 
these  words  were  my  last  I  would  still  say  I  love  you. 

The  mighty  roar  gradually  deepened,  and  with  it  blended 
the  cry  of  thousands;  the  earth  quivered  and  swayed,  then 
the  thunder  passed  on,  accompanied  by  sounds  like  the  dis- 
tant crash  of  falling  buildings. 


LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS   OF  A    NIOHT  423 

George  kissed  the  bowed  head  and  whispered,  "There, 
It's  over  and  we  are  safe." 

"Oh,  thank  God!  you  were  with  me!"  she  sobbed. 

"May  I  not  be  with  you  always,  Ella?" 

"God  grant  it!  Oh,  George,  George,  I  would  have  leaped 
after  you  into  the  water  if  they  had  not  held  me.  How  could 
I  do  without  you  now  ?" 

' '  Come,  my  brave  little  wife,  come  with  me  to  my  father 
and  reassure  him." 

"George,"  cried  Mr.  Houghton. 

"We  are  here,"  he  answered,  drawing  aside  the 
screen. 

"We?" 

"Yes,  Ella  and  I.     That  last  shock  has  rather  hastened 

matters." 

"Ella,  my  dear  child!  Truly  God  is  bringing  good  out 
of  evil;"  and  he  took  the  girl  into  his  arms.  Then  he  added, 
"You'll  forgive  me  and  be  my  own  dear  daughter?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Houghton.  You'll  find  I  am  rich  in  love  if 
nothing  else." 

"Ah!  Ella  dear,  the  world  seems  going  to  pieces,  and 
my  wealth  with  it,  but  love  only  grows  more  real  and  more 
precious. ' ' 

"My  father's  calling  me;"  and  kissing  him  a  hasty  good- 
by  she  vanished. 

Miss  Ainsley  again  ran  shrieking  out,  calling  upon 
Clancy,  but  Dr.  Devoe  met  her  and  drew  her  away  from 
his  muttering,  half- conscious  patient.  When  she  became 
sufficiently  quiet  he  told  her  that  Clancy  was  dangerously 
ill,  and  that  nothing  must  be  said  or  done  to  excite  him. 
This  seemed  to  her  only  another  proof  of  general  disaster, 
and,  in  almost  abject  tones,  she  begged,  "Oh,  doctor,  make 
me  sleep  till— my  father  will  surely  come  to-morrow,  and 
then  I  can  get  away. ' ' 

Her  entreaty  was  so  loud  that  even  Mara  could  not  help 
hearing  her.  The  physician  rather  contemptuously  thought 
that  it  would  be  better  for  all  if  she  were  quiet,  and  gave 


424  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

the  anodyne.     So  far  from  feeling  sympathy  for  Clancy  she 
was  almost  vindictive  toward  him  for  having  failed  her. 

Fear,  uncontrolled,  becomes  one  of  the  most  debasing 
of  the  emotions.  It  can  lead  to  panic  even  among  soldiers 
with  arms  in  their  hands;  sailors  will  trample  on  women 
and  children  in  their  blind  rush  for  the  boats;  men  will 
even  deny  their  convictions,  their  faith,  and  cringe  to  brutal 
power;  crimes  the  most  vile  are  committed  from  fear,  and 
fear  had  virtually  obliterated  womanhood  in  Miss  Ainsley's 
soul.  She  was  in  a  mood  to  accept  any  conditions  for  the 
assurance  of  safety,  and  she  gave  not  a  thought  to  any  one 
or  anything  that  offered  no  help.  With  the  roar  of  the 
earthquake  still  in  her  ears,  and  in  the  dark  midnight 
she  knew  there  was  no  help,  no  way  of  escape,  and  so  with 
the  impulse  of  the  shipwrecked  who  break  into  the  spirit 
room  she  besought  the  opiate  which  could  at  least  bring 
oblivion.  Her  eyes,  which  could  be  so  beautiful,  had  the 
wild,  hunted  look  of  an  animal,  and  her  form,  usually  grace 
itself,  writhed  into  distortions.  Her  demoralization  under 
the  long- continued  terror  was  complete,  and  all  were  glad 
when  she  became  unconscious  and  could  be  hidden  from 
sight.  As  Aun'  Sheba  made  her  way  to  her  own  household 
she  grunted,  "A  lun'tic  out  ob  a  'sylem  wouldn'  mar'y  dat 
gal  if  he  seed  wot  1  seed." 


GOOD   BROUGHT   OUT   OF   EVIL 


425 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

GOOD   BROUGHT  OUT  OF  EVIL 

THERE  were  brave  spirits  and  Heaven-sustained  souls 
m  the  little  camp  which  falls  under  our  immediate 
observation;  and  outward  calm  was  soon  restored, 
yet  it  was  long  before  any  one  could  sleep  again.  Although 
she  had  trembled  like  a  leaf,  Mara  had  not  left  her  watch  by 
Mrs.  Hunter,  nor  had  Aun'  Sheba  till  some  moments  after 
the  shock.  Then  Mrs.  Bodine  joined  the  girl  with  soothing 
and  reassuring  words.  She  did  not  tell  Mara,  however,  of 
Clancy's  illness,  feeling  that  no  additional  burden  should 
be  imposed  until  it  was  necessary.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Willough- 
by  sat  together  by  the  fire;  so  also  did  Ella,  with  her  head 
upon  her  father's  breast,  as  she  told  of  the  great  joy  which 
robbed  the  night  of  so  much  of  its  terror.  Old  Tobe,  with 
Sam  and  Jube,  crouched  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  low, 
flickering  blaze,  which  lighted  up  in  odd  effect  the  white 
wool  and  wrinkled  visage  of  the  aged  negro.  In  some  re- 
spects he  and  Mr.  Houghton  were  alike.  The  scenes  they 
were  passing  through  toned  down  their  fiery  domineering 
spirits  into  resignation  and  fortitude. 

George  was  restless,  strong  and  inspired  rather  than  awed 
by  the  recent  events.  He  knew  that  Ella's  eyes  followed 
him  as  he  came  and  went  from  his  father's  bedside,  waited 
on  Clancy,  and  made  himself  useful  in  other  ways.  A  maa 
would  be  craven  indeed  who  could  not  be  brave  under  such 

Beyond  his  camp,  scenes  impossible  to  describe  were 
taking  place.     White  clergymen  were  going  from  group  to 


426  THE   EARTH    TREMBLED 

group,  and  from  shelter  to  shelter,  speaking  words  of  cheer 
and  hope.  Physicians  were  busy  among  those  who  needed 
physical  aid;  husbands  soothing  wives,  and  parents  their 
sobbing  children. 

On  the  edge  of  the  square  near  the  street  the  groans  and 
cries  of  a  woman  began  to  draw  the  restless  people  who  al- 
ways run  to  any  point  of  disturbance. 

"George,"  shouted  Dr.  Devoe.  The  young  man  re- 
sponded promptly.  "Keep  this  crowd  away — the  vulgar 
^wretches!" 

A  woman  of  refinement  and  wealth,  who  with  her  hus- 
band had  clung  to  their  adjacent  home  until  the  last  shock 
occurred,  was  in  the  throes  of  childbirth. 

No  one  could  stand  a  moment  before  the  young  man's 
words  and  aspect,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  secured  all  the 
privacy  possible. 

Eventually  he  bore  the  almost  swooning  mother  to  the 
inner  room  under  the  awning,  where  a  bed  had  been  made 
for  her,  while  Mrs.  Bodme  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  cared  for 
the  child.  The  husband  was  so  prostrated  by  anxiety  for 
his  wife  as  to  be  almost  helpless  himself. 

Among  a  certain  class  of  the  negroes,  to  religious  ex- 
citement was  added  the  wild  terror  of  the  earthquake,  and 
they  were  simply  becoming  frantic  in  their  actions  and 
expressions.  George,  Dr.  Devoe,  Mr.  Willoughby  and  some 
others  went  to  the  large  group  of  which  old  Hannah  and 
two  great  burly  exhorters  were  the  inspiration.  They  com- 
manded and  implored  them  to  be  more  quiet,  but  received 
only  insolent  replies. 

"  We'se  savin'  de  city  which  de  wickedness  ob  you  white 
folks  is  'stroyin',"  one  of  the  shepherds  shouted;  "an'  we'se 
gwine  to  cry  loud  and  mighty  till  mawnin'." 

At  this  moment,  George  espied  Uncle  Sheba,  who  cer- 
tainly appeared,  in  the  general  craze,  to  have  a  sense  of  his 
besetting  sin;  for  he  was  yelling  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 
"I'se  gwine  ter  wuck  in  de  mawnin'." 

Suddenly  there  burst  through  the  crowd  an  apparition 


GOOD    BROUGHT   OUT   OF   EVIL  427 

before  which  he  quailed;  his  jaw  dropped  and  his  howl  de- 
generated into  a  groan.  Ann'  Sheba  had  heard  and  recog- 
nized his  voice,  and  she  went  through  the  throng  like  a 
puffing  tug  through  driftwood.  "Mister  Buggone,"  she 
said,  with  the  sternness  of  fate,  "ef  yer  doan  stop  yer  noise 
you'se  'lowance  stop  heah  and  now.  Yer'll  hab  ter  wuck 
shuah  or  starbe,  fer  if  yer  doan  come  wid  me  now  yer  neber 
come  agin." 

Uncle  Sheba  went  away  with  her,  meek  as  a  lamb. 

The  others  were  too  frenzied  even  to  notice  this  little 
scene.  George,  Mr.  Willoughby,  and  some  others  were  with 
difficulty  restrained  by  the  cooler  Dr.  Devoe.  ''Go  with  me 
to  the  station-house,"  he  said.  "In  behalf  of  my  patients 
I  will  demand  that  this  nuisance  be  abated." 

The  officer  on  duty  returned  with  them,  backed  by  a 
resolute  body  of  men.  The  two  exhorters  were  told  to  take 
their  choice  between  silence  and  the  station-house.  There 
is  usually  a  good  deal  of  seliish  method  in  such  leaders' 
madness,  and  they  sullenly  retired.  Poor,  demented  Han- 
nah was  bundled  away,  and  comparative  quiet  restored 
through  the  square. 

The  weary  hours  dragged  on;  the  uneasy  earth  caused 
no  further  alarms  that  night.  At  last  the  dawn  was  again 
greeted  with  thankfulness  beyond  words. 

There  was  no  paper  that  morning,  for  compositors  and 
pressmen  could  not  be  induced  to  work,  and  at  first  there 
was  a  feeling  of  great  uncertainty  and  depression. 

Mrs.  Bodine's  spirit  was  again  like  a  cork  on  the  sur- 
face. At  breakfast  she  remarked,  "We  had  an  awful  time 
last  night,  but  here  we  are  still  alive,  and  able  to  take  some 
nourishment.  I  expect  the  Northern  papers  will  say  that 
this  wicked  and  rebellious  old  city  is  getting  its  deserts; 
but  we  shall  soon  have  help  and  cheer  from  our  Southern 
friends." 

"I  think  you  will  find  yourself  mistaken,  Mrs.  Bodine, 
about  the  North,"  said  George. 

"Oh,  youl"  cried  the  old  lady,  laughing,  "you  look  at 


428  THE   EARTH   TREMBLED 

the  South  through  a  pair  of  blue  eyes.     I  reckon  we  shall 
have  to  send  you  and  Ella  North  as  missionaries." 

George  in  his  pride  and  happiness  co^ld  not  keep  his 
secret,  and  had  been  congratulated  with  honest  heartiness. 
He  therefore  responded  gayly,  ''When  I  take  Ella  Korth 
even  earthquakes  won't  keep  young  fellows  from  coming 
here  to  see  if  any  more  like  her  are  left." 

Again  Ella  remarked,  nodding  significantly,  "Time  will 
cure  him,  Cousin  Sophy." 

Nevertheless  the  illness  of  Mrs.  Hunter  and  Clancy,  and 
the  precarious  condition  of  the  young  mother,  cast  a  gloom 
over  the  little  party.  Clancy's  pulse  indicated  great  ex- 
haustion, and  he  only  recognized  people  when  he  was 
spoken  to.  Dr.  Devoe  prohibited  any  one  from  going 
near  him  except  himself  and  George.  Miss  Ainsley  ut- 
tered no  protest  at  this.  She  truly  felt  that  after  the 
events  of  the  night  all  was  over  betweeu  them.  In  a  sort 
of  sullen  shame  she  said  little  and  longed  only  for  the  hour 
which  would  bring  her  father  and  escape. 

Mr.  Ainsley  arrived  during  the  morning,  and  George  en- 
tertained him  hospitably.  His  daughter  clung  to  him,  im- 
ploring him  to  take  her  away  at  the  first  possible  moment. 
He  was  much  distressed  at  Clancy's  condition,  and  ofiered 
to  take  him  North  also;  but  Dr.  Devoe  said  authoritatively, 
"He  is  too  ill  to  be  moved  or  even  spoken  to."  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby  and  her  husband  were  determined  that  Miss  Ains- 
ley should  not  give  her  father  a  false  impression,  and  spoke 
freely  of  Clancy's  great  exertions.  "Yes,"  added  Dr.  De- 
voe, "1  feel  guilty  myself.  He  should  have  been  taken  in 
hand  yesterday  afternoon  and  compelled  to  be  quiet  in  mind 
and  body,  but  1  had  so  many  to  look  after,  and  he  seemed 
the  embodiment  of  energy  and  fearlessness.  Well,  it's  too 
late  now,  and  we  must  do  the  best  we  can  for  him." 

That  day  Mr.  Ainsley  and  his  daughter  left  the  city. 
She  gave  vivid  descriptions  of  the  catastrophe  at  the  North, 
but  her  friends  remarked  upon  her  fine  reserve  and  modesty 
in  speaking  of    her    personal  experiences.      Her  faultless 


GOOD   BROUGHT   OUT   OF   EVIL  429 

veneer  was  soon  restored,  and  we  suppose  she  is  pursuing 
her  career  of  getting  the  most  and  best  out  of  life  after  a 
fashion  which  has  too  many  imitators. 

Poor  Mara's  name  was  significant  of  her  experience  of 
that  day  and  others  which  followed.  In  the  morning  she 
learned  of  Clancy's  illness,  and  it  was  eventually  found 
that  her  voice  and  touch  had  a  soothing  effect  possessed 
by  no  other. 

We  have  followed  our  characters  through  the  climax  of 
their  experiences,  and  need  only  to  suggest  what  further  hap- 
pened. They,  with  others,  realized  more  fully  the  condi- 
tions of  their  lot  and  the  extent  of  the  disaster. 

With  an  ever-increasmg  courage  and  fortitude  the  people 
faced  the  situation,  and  resolved  to  build  anew  the  fortunes 
of  their  city.  Communication  with  the  outside  world  per- 
mitted messages  of  sympathy  and  far  more.  In  the  Sunday 
morning  issue  of  the  ''News  and  Courier"  the  following  sig- 
nificant editorial  appeared:  "There  is  no  breali  in  the  broad 
line  of  brotherly  love  throughout  the  United  States.  All 
hearts  in  this  mighty  country  throb  in  unison.  In  the 
North  as  in  the  South,  in  the  West  as  in  the  East,  there 
is  a  sincere  sorrow  at  the  calamity  which  has  befallen 
Charleston,  and  there  is  shining  evidence  of  a  beneficent 
desire  to  give  the  suffering  people  the  assistance  of  both 
act  and  word." 

Boston,  the  former  headquarters  of  the  abolitionists,  and 
the  veterans  of  the  Grand  Army  vied  with  Southern  cities 
and  ex-Confederates  in  a  spontaneous  outpouring  of  sym- 
pathy and  help.  The  hearts  of  a  proud  people  were  at  last 
subdued,  but  it  was  by  hands  stretched  out  in  fraternal  love 
and  not  to  strike. 

In  the  city  squares  and  other  places  of  refuge  there  still 
continued  sad  and  awful  experiences,  one  of  which  was 
graphically  described  by  the  city  editor  of  the  journal  al- 
ready quoted. 

At  nearly  midnight  on  Friday  there  had  been  a  cessation 
in  the  shocks  for  about  twenty-four  hours,  and  the  people 


430  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

were  resting  quietly.  Then  came  a  convulsion  second  only 
in  severity  to  the  first  one  which  had  wrought  such  wide- 
spread rum.  "It  had  scarcely  died  away,"  to  quote  from 
the  account  referred  to,  "before  there  rose  through  the  still 
night  air  in  the  direction  of  the  public  squares  and  parks  the 
now  familiar  but  still  terrible  cries  of  thousands  of  wailing 
voices,  united  in  one  vast  chorus,  expressive  only  of  the 
utmost  human  misery.  For  a  while  this  sound  was  heard 
above  all  other  sounds,  suggesting  vividly  to  the  mind 
what  has  been  told  by  survivors  of  the  scene  that  follows 
the  sinking  of  a  great  ship  at  sea,  when  its  living  freight  is 
left  struggling  with  the  waves;  and  this  impression  was 
heightened  to  the  distant  auditor  by  the  gradual  diminu- 
tion in  the  volume  of  the  cries,  as  though  voice  after  voice 
were  being  silenced,  as  life  after  life  were  quenched  beneath 
the  tossing  waves." 

Dr.  Devoe  advised  Mr.  Houghton  to  leave  the  city,  but 
he  said,  "No,  1  shall  remain  with  my  children;  I  shall  share 
in  the  fortunes  of  the  city  which  is  henceforth  to  be  my  home. ' ' 
Mrs.  Hunter  did  not  long  survive,  but  she  became  quiet 
and  rational  before  her  end.  To  Mara's  imploring  words 
she  replied  calmly,  "No,  my  time  is  near;  and  I  feel  that 
it  is  best.  I  belong  to  the  old  order  of  things,  and  have 
lingered  too  long  already.  I  may  have  been  mistaken  in 
my  feelings,  and  wrong  in  my  enmities,  but  I  had  great 
provocation.  Now  I  forgive  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven.  God 
grant,  dear  child,  that  you  may  have  brighter  days." 

A  sad  little  company  followed  her  to  the  cemetery,  and 
as  they  laid  her  to  rest,  they  also  spread  over  her  memory 
the  mantle  of  a  broad,   loving  charity. 

For  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  brighter  days  could  never 
come  to  Mara,  for  Clancy's  life  flickered  like  the  light  of 
an  expiring  candle.  At  last  the  fever  broke  and  he  became 
rational,  the  pure,  open  air  conducing  to  his  recovery.  He 
was  very  weak  and  his  convalescence  was  slow,  measuring 
the  mental  and  physical  strain  through  which  he  had  passed. 
Never  had  a  poor  mortal  more  faithful  watchers,  never  was 


GOOD    BROUGHT  OUT  OF   EVIL  431 

life  wooed  back  from  the  dark  shore  by  more  devoted  love. 
"Live,  live,"  was  ever  the  language  of  Mara's  eyes,  and 
happiness  gave  him  the  power  to  live. 

Captain  Bodine  carried  out  both  the  letter  and  spirit  of 
his  note.  While  he  was  very  gentle,  he  was  also  very  firm 
with  Mara,  expressing  only  paternal  affection  and  also  ex- 
erting paternal  authority.  At  proper  times  he  told  her  to 
go  and  rest  in  tones  which  she  obeyed. 

One  day  when  Clancy  was  able  to  sit  up  a  little,  he  took 
her  aside  and  said,  "Mara,  you  and  Mr.  Clancy  are  in  one 
sense  comparatively  alone  in  the  world,  although  you  have 
many  stanch  friends.  His  health,  almost  his  life,  requires 
the  faithful,  watchful  care  which  you  can  best  give,  and 
which  you  are  entitled  to  give.  It  is  his  wish  and  mine, 
also  Cousin  Sophy's,  that  you  should  be  married  at  once." 

Again  she  gave  him  that  luminous  look  which  he  so  well 
remembered — an  expression  so  full  of  homage,  affection  and 
sympathy  that  for  the  first  time  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
"There,  my  child,"  he  said,  "you  have  repaid  me,  you 
have  compensated  me  for  everything.  There  is  no  need  of 
words" — and  he  turned  hastily  away. 

W  hen  the  sun  was  near  the  horizon  Mara  was  married, 
not  in  old  St.  Michael's,  as  her  mother  had  been,  but  in  the 
large  tent  which  of  late  had  sheltered  her  lover.  Her  pas- 
tor employed  the  old  sacred  words  to  which  her  mother  had 
responded;  and  Captain  Bodine,  with  the  impress  of  calm, 
victorious  manhood  on  his  brow,  gave  her  away  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  little  group  of  those  who  knew  her  best  and 
loved  her  most.  We  may  well  believe  from  that  time  forth 
her  gentleness  and  happiness  would  change  the  meaning  of 
her  name. 

At  last  all  ventured  back  to  their  homes.  Mr.  Hough- 
ton was  so  averse  to  parting  with  Ella  that  he  equalled 
George  in  his  impatience  for  the  marriage.  Aun'  Sheba, 
who  supervised  preparations  for  the  wedding  breakfast,  de- 
clared, "It  am  jes  jolly  ter  see  old  Marse  Houghton.  As 
fer  Missus  Bodine,  it  pears  as  if  she'd  go  off  de  han'l. " 


432  THE    EARTH    TREMBLED 

Then  father  and  sod  took  the  blue-eyed  bride  to  the 
North  on  a  visit,  in  what  George  characterized  as  a  "sort 
of  triumphal  procession." 

The  cabins  of  Aun'  Sheba  and  Kern  Watson  were  re- 
stored to  a  condition  better  than  their  former  state,  but 
Uncle  Sheba  discovered  that  the  good  old  times  of  his 
wife's  easy  tolerance  were  gone.  She  put  the  case  plainly, 
*'Mr.  Buggone,  de  Bible  says  dat  dem  dat  doesn't  wuck 
mus'n't  eat,  an'  I'se  gwine  ter  stick  ter  de  Bible  troo  tick 
an'  tin.  You'se  able  to  wuck  as  I  be,  an'  you'se  'lowance 
now  'pends  on  you'se  wuck." 

We  have  already  seen  that  Uncle  Sheba  was  one  of  those 
philosophers  who  always  submit  to  the  inevitable. 

Late  one  September  night  the  moonbeams  shone  under 
the  moss-draped  branches  of  a  live  oak  in  a  cemetery. 
They  brought  out  in  snowy  whiteness  a  small  headstone 
on  which  were  engraved  the  words,  "Yes,  Vilet."  Sitting 
by  the  grave  and  leaning  his  head  against  the  stone  was 
Kern  Watson,  but  his  calm,  strong  face  was  turned  heaven- 
ward where  his  little  girl  waited  for  him  "shuah." 


THE    END 


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